


An Imitation of a Light

by weaselett



Category: Criminal Minds, Thoughtcrimes (2003)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-04
Updated: 2011-09-04
Packaged: 2017-10-23 10:14:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/249185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weaselett/pseuds/weaselett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the BAU are called in to investigate a series of murders that might be linked, one of their number discovers just how dangerous secrets can be. (This story involves a crossover with the TV film 'Thoughtcrimes', but no knowledge of that film is required.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for CM_bigbang on Livejournal.
> 
> And to give the full warnings for this fic, there is mention of the following potentially triggery issues in this fic: child abuse, paedophilia, sexual abuse.
> 
> And there is depiction of: torture (using acid in one instance), violent death, suicide, self harm, bodily fluids and bodily functions.

Experience comprises illusions lost, rather than wisdom gained.   
_Joseph Roux_

Spencer Reid was many things, but he liked to believe that a coward wasn’t one of them.

Over the years, he’d faced down bullies, in the school yard and in the street, negotiated with murderers, been tortured, so many things that a coward would never be able to face. The only problem is, even now, he still doesn’t like hospitals.

It’s not something his team mates seem to notice but then, he guesses most of the time he’s been in hospitals with them, he’s either been working or injured. They’ve never seen him on his visits to his mother. Never seen the way he hesitates in doorways and holds his bag in front of him like a shield.

If his mother is having a good day, it’s easier. She knows how to make him relax. The other times, he’s always surprised when he makes it to her side.

But this, this hospital, this mental ward, it’s different. Unexpected.

Spencer makes his way slowly through the halls, ducking his head when the nurses throw curious looks in his direction. He knows he’s taking the long way; he could have just walked through the lobby, to the bank of elevators and ridden straight up to where he was heading. The truth is, he needs the walk, needs something to distract himself from thinking, as difficult, impossible, a task as that is.

He still reaches the desk before he’s really ready. The nurse on duty smiles up at him, sliding the sign in sheet across to him. She doesn’t need to ask who Spencer has come to see, this isn’t his first visit, though he will never stop hoping that it might be his last.

“It’s been a good day.” Nurse Aikens offers quietly, and Spencer nods automatically. Intellectually, he understands what that means, but emotionally, he finds it hard to see how any day can be a good day. There’s a moment’s pause, as she waits for him to respond, before she shifts in her seat, raising a hand as though to push hair out of her face, “Nurse Saunders is changing the bedding, he should be done soon though.”

Spencer nods again, hesitating before finally picking up the pen and signing the sheet. He takes a minute to lower the pen, then slides the clipboard back to Aikens before he turns and starts the short walk to his final destination.

The fourth door on the right, a private room, with a view over the small area of green behind the hospital, rather than the car park. It’s an improvement on the last room, which was smaller, and had smelled much more strongly of disinfectant.

Spencer stands outside, taking advantage of the window, grateful that the blinds haven’t been closed. He wants to judge how he’ll be received before he enters, or at least that’s what he tells himself, just as he does every time he hesitates in the doorway watching his mother.

Nurse Saunders, who Spencer recognises from his previous visits, chats idly to his patient as he changes the sheets. He doesn’t seem to mind the fact that it seems to be an entirely one sided conversation, flashing the odd bright smile at the man in the window seat, as though he’s had a reply to one of his questions. Spencer wonders, idly, if the man makes up answers in his head, imagines what the other half of the conversation might be. A way to make your reactions look real, to not seem forced in the face of the constant silence.

Spencer has only made it into the room once.

Spencer sighs, gripping the strap of his bag as he watches the man in the window seat, long legs drawn up to his chest, chin resting on his knees, eyes staring blankly into space. The curtains are open, and it’s still light outside, Spencer can see the trees that edge the green, the leaves turning brown. It’s a nicer day than it has any right to be.

Saunders looks up and meets Spencer’s gaze, hesitating briefly before continuing his one sided conversation. Spencer knows he isn’t the first person to spend visits watching, never entering the room. He also knows, too well really, that it isn’t healthy.

The truth is, Spencer has spent so much of his life wondering if he was going to take after his mother, he’d never really spared that much time to worrying about a similar fate for those close to him. Even with Gideon, who had already been broken when Spencer had first met him, Spencer had never seriously considered it.

Now, with the distance of years, Spencer knows that he was in denial, that he felt betrayed when Gideon left; another person in his life who had failed to stick around, who hadn’t been strong enough. It wasn’t fair, but then the way Gideon had left hadn’t been fair to anyone.

Spencer’s knuckles turned white. He’d considered it, even suggested it out loud, that Gideon leaving had been the beginning, but Rossi had won out with reason; this wasn’t something they could have predicted. There hadn’t been any signs to spot, no warnings, nothing they could have done.

Or at least, almost nothing. They could have been quicker, could have gotten there sooner, been quicker to notice; the list got longer the more Spencer thought about it.

There was always something to be done. It was just rare that you got a chance to do it.

This time, they hadn’t had a chance. The choices they had made, had led to this, and there was nothing to be done about that. No amount of thinking was going to change the past. It was just going to take a while for Spencer to accept that.

He sighed again, squaring his shoulders. Aikens had been right, it was a good day, or at least better than the others Spencer had experienced. Today, there was no screaming, no yelling, no uncontrollable anger. There was nothing. For the first time in weeks, there was nothing.

If there was a day for Spencer to make himself walk into the room, this was it. No more avoidance. He was going to face this, make up his own answers to his own questions, laugh at the imagined responses, smile like he meant it.

Today, Spencer was going to stop being a coward.


	2. One

**Quantico, Virginia, six weeks earlier**

Jennifer Jareau, JJ, picked up her coffee mug, cradling it in her hands as she took in her office. It wasn’t neat; she didn’t have any of the books that seemed to take up most of the space in other offices, and her wall was bare of awards. It wasn’t that she hadn’t received any; it was just that she didn’t feel the need to put them on display.

Whenever someone visited her in her office, she needed the focus on them, wanted them to feel like they were on equal ground with her, like she understood them; awards wouldn’t do that. The piles of folders scattered around also made her office seem less intimidating, or at least she hoped so. She didn’t think she would ever be able to make it look orderly.

She sighed, leaning back in her chair a little more, gaze resting on the three files she had open on her desk. She’d managed to whittle her heap down to just these three cases. All of the others had gone into various piles, each one intended for a different profiler. Those, she would take out and drop into the relevant inboxes, ready to be reviewed.

But these three, each one very different from the next, were more difficult. Time was a factor in two, the other she thought could probably wait, but she wasn’t certain, and she didn’t want to make that choice alone.

She glanced at her computer screen, eying her inbox. There, at the top of the list, sat yet another email from the Department of Defense, another reminder that she could have almost any job she wanted. The only problem was, people didn’t seem to understand that the job she had was the job she wanted.

They all thought she was crazy.

She sighed, freeing one hand to rub her eyes wearily, before glancing at the clock. Aaron Hotchner, her boss, would be back from his meeting now, which meant it was time to move.

She shifted her various piles, collecting the ones she could drop off on the way to Hotch’s office, ordering them so the three piles that she was taking to him were at the bottom. It wouldn’t take long to do a circuit of the bullpen, leaving Hotch’s office for last, but she would be aware of every moment, just as she always was.

Time meant a lot, in more cases than she could count; the quicker they got involved in a case, the better the outcome. It wasn’t always true, and she knew that, there was a small pile, hidden away one of her desk drawers, of the ‘impossible’ cases. The ones where they’d lost, despite how hard they’d tried.

She hoped that she wouldn’t be adding another file to that pile anytime soon.

-

JJ did her rounds quickly, offering her team mates a faint smile as she filled their in-trays, and she knew they could all read the tension in her. At work, when they weren’t working a case, she kept herself fairly open, not bothering to hide how she was feeling; better to save the energy for when she really needed it.

She handed David Rossi, their senior profiler, his own stack last, and he made a point of catching her hand to give it a quick squeeze before he let go. “Hotch got back about half an hour ago,” he said, as he held her gaze, “and he looked grimmer than usual.”

JJ offered Rossi a faint smile, nodding, “He always does, after his monthly briefing with Strauss.”

Rossi snorted, nodding, “Anyone would.”

JJ nodded quickly, heading out of his office and moving to the door of the office next door, knocking and waiting for permission to enter. Hotch’s blinds were open, as they almost always were, which meant she could see him bent over his own stack of paperwork. JJ let out a soft sigh; he wasn’t going to get the chance to finish whatever it was he was working on.

She pushed the door open at the sound of his voice, which had been muffled by the wood of the office door, holding up her files, “I have a few cases that I wanted your opinion on.”

Hotch’s eyebrows rose, just slightly, and he motioned to the visitor’s chair, before he cleared space on his desk, pulling out a fresh notepad. JJ settled into the chair, then handed him the files, opening up her own notes.

“The first case,” Hotch opened up the file as she spoke, “is a serial arsonist in Denver; he hasn’t killed anyone, but that seems to be mostly due to luck. The locals think that it’s only a matter of time before he kills someone.”

Hotch had nodded, along, listening to her, barely sparing the contents of the file a glance. That was the way it worked, he trusted her to brief him on a case, and he would read though the case once she had finished, “You think they might need us there?”

JJ nodded, “Their unsub is speeding up, setting fires more and more often, and they’re getting bigger. There is a good chance he will end up killing someone, and even if he doesn’t, the potential amount of property damage alone concerns me.” They didn’t just profile serial killers after all. People didn’t have to die strangely to gain the BAU’s attention.

Hotch nodded then ducked his head to flick through the file, scanning the police reports. It took him a few minutes before he looked back up. “The next case?”

JJ took a breath, it was worse, she knew, though again, no one had been killed. Yet. “A serial rapist in Lawrence, they think he’s raped at least ten women over the last year, possibly more. He seems to be getting more violent with each attack, but there’s no clear type in his victims. Different faces, builds, hair colour, background, age, it’s more like he doesn’t care who he attacks, just that he can get access to them.”

Hotch frown deepened, and he flipped open the file, reading through the reports again, “What do you think?”

“I think it’s only a matter of time before he kills one of his victims, and once he does that, he won’t go back. He’ll just keep killing.”

Hotch still didn’t really react, but JJ didn’t expect him to. He liked to get her opinion, unbiased by his own, before he started really discussing the cases with her. Before they debated which case needed the team’s attention the most urgently.

Hotch opened the third file, and JJ needed no more prompting, “Charleston County Sheriff’s department think they have a serial killer.”

Hotch flipped through to the first set of crime scene photographs. “They aren’t sure?”

“The MO varies, the only thing they have to tie the murders together is the timeline, and the dump sites.” JJ explained, “I think they’re right, and if the timeline is correct, there’s going to be another victim soon.”

Hotch scanned through the rest of the reports, and JJ watched as his shoulders tensed just a little. She didn’t need to hear what he said next to know that he would agree with her assessment.

“I’ll hand the other two cases to the other teams, there’s enough here to build a basic profile for the arsonist. The serial rapist will be more difficult, I expect they’ll be called out, but judging from the reports here, we’ll be the most helpful in South Carolina.”

JJ nodded, “That was my feeling.”

Hotch offered her a faint smile, “I’ll let the team know we’ll be presenting a case in two hours, if you can call and let them know we’re coming.”

JJ nodded, accepting the files back from Hotch, and heading out. She would call home quickly as well, once she’d called the Sheriff, to let them know that she wouldn’t be coming home for a while.

-

JJ stood by the whiteboard, watching as her teammates trailed into the room, one after another. Hotch was the first one to arrive, carrying his own copy of the case file, then Rossi followed, claiming the seat at Hotch’s left. Emily Prentiss came next, carrying her notepad and a steaming cup of coffee. She offered JJ a smile as she settled into the chair on Rossi’s other side.

Next, arriving at the same time, each carrying their own mugs and notebooks, came Derek Morgan and Spencer Reid, the look Morgan was giving Reid suggesting that they’d been having an interesting discussion on their walk up. Penelope Garcia, their technical analyst, and always the most brightly dressed of them all, arrived last, carrying her laptop, a notepad and a fluffy pen.

JJ waited for them all to settle, giving them a moment to open up the files that she’d set ready for each of them, before she began, “Charleston Sheriff’s Department have requested out presence.”

“South Carolina?” Rossi made it sound less like a question, and more like a rumination on past visits. JJ was sure he could tell some stories. Both from his time in BAU, and from his numerous book tours.

She nodded, “It seems they have a serial killer.”

“Seems?” Morgan caught the word, as JJ had expected him to. She glanced at Hotch, letting him answer.

Hotch nodded, meeting Morgan’s gaze across the table, “They have a series of murders that they think might be connected, but they aren’t certain, none were killed in the same way.”

JJ took that as her prompt to begin the main section of her presentation. She had selected the less disturbing images from the reports, knowing that Garcia would appreciate it. JJ pointed the controller at the screen bringing up the photos of the first victim, “This is the first victim, Nick Barnett,” there was a copy of Barnett’s driver’s license photo, alongside a crime scene photo. It was almost impossible to recognise the body that was laid out on the ground, “they identified him from his finger prints.”

“He was beaten, then shot point blank in the head,” Morgan read from the file, wincing as he flipped to the next page, and the close up pictures of the body, it wasn’t pretty.

“He was missing for two days before his body was found,” Hotch added, as he split his attention between JJ and the rest of the team. He didn’t need to reread the file.

JJ brought up the next set of photos, of a woman this time, “This is Keri Osbourne, she went missing a week after Barnett’s body was found. They found her body three weeks later.”

“She was starved, then drowned.” Prentiss read from the file this time, frowning, “The killer spent a lot more time with her, but her death was less violent.”

“The third victim,” JJ brought up her final set of photographs, “Scott Monroe, was found two days after he went missing.”

“And he was,” Rossi paused, wincing as he read from the file, “raped with a foreign object, beaten and then strangled.”

“What made the locals think these cases are connected?” Morgan asked.

JJ brought up a set of three photographs, “The killer left newspapers next to all of his victims.”

Reid frowned, squinting at the pictures, “None of the dates on the newspapers match the period that the victims were taken, or when they were killed.”

“They haven’t been able to figure out why the unsub left those particular newspapers as yet.” Hotch replied, “There is another reason that they called us; the timeline. This unsub always takes another victim within a week of dumping the last.”

“And it’s been two days since the last body was found.” JJ added, watching the reactions of their teammates.

“So we have five days until this guy takes his next victim?” Morgan said, sounding grim.

“In theory,” Rossi hedged, “could be that he takes a victim a week after dumping the last, but the next victim will be missing three weeks, like Keri.” He nodded to the photos on the whiteboard.

“First victim, two days, second, three weeks, third, two days,” Morgan ran through it, “you think the next could be three weeks again, then another two days.”

“Could be.” Rossi said, turning his attention back to the file.

“Or,” Prentiss spoke up again, “it could be that this unsub takes longer with women, makes them suffer a slow death, but the men, they get quick, painful, violent deaths.”

Rossi nodded, “Or it could be that.”

“Either way, the sooner we get there the better. If there’s a chance that we can catch this unsub before he can take another victim, we need to take it.” JJ said, and the others all nodded. Garcia was shifting in her sheet, her gaze on JJ rather than the screen.

“What do you need me to do?” Garcia asked, turning to her right to meet Hotch’s gaze.

“See what you can find out about the victims, see if there’s anything that connects them, and see if there is anything to connect them to the particular issues of the newspaper the unsub left with the bodies.” Hotch said, watching as she took notes, her pen hesitating over the last instruction.

“That one’s going to be hard, there might not be complete records of the newspapers online.”

Hotch nodded, “I realize that, just do what you can, we can always follow that up once we’re in South Carolina.”

Garcia nodded, gathering her stuff together, “I’ll go get started on that, don’t you guys have too much fun without me.” It was a less bright parting comment than she was known for, but crime scene photos tended to do that to her.

“Everyone grab your go bags, wheels up in an hour.” Hotch said. Anyone else, JJ thought absently, probably would have made some comment about ‘stopping this guy at three’. She glanced at Rossi then, and almost smiled. It looked like he had considered it, for a moment, before thinking better of it.

They would never have let him hear the end of it if he had.

-

It would be a relatively short flight, but it would be enough time for them to work through the possibilities, and decide on a game plan.

They settled into their chosen seats, waiting for the plane to take off before they gathered, Prentiss, Rossi, Reid and Morgan having claimed the seats around the table, while JJ settled on the end of the couch, and Hotch half sat on the smaller table across the aisle.

“Three murders, three different MOs.” Rossi was the first to speak, spreading the crime scene photos across the table.

“It could be a contract killer,” Prentiss glanced at Rossi briefly before focusing on Hotch, “like Commack.”

“It doesn’t seem likely,” Rossi answered, “a contract killer would have had a similar MO, there would be some sign of them keeping a record of the deed.” He pointed at the crime scene photos, “They wouldn’t dump the bodies like this, and they certainly wouldn’t leave the newspaper. It draws too much attention.”

“It seems more likely that the unsub is doing this because of a personal need.” Hotch agreed.

“The victimology is all over the place,” Morgan pointed out, “Barnett was a car mechanic, Osborne was an unemployed foster mother, and Monroe was a teacher.”

“Two men and one woman,” Reid agreed, “though they’ve all been white so far.”

“There must be something that made the unsub pick these people. It can’t be completely random.” JJ argued, drawing a reaction from Reid.

“While it’s true that it’s impossible for the killings to be completely random, it’s possible that the killer just picked them because they were available.” Reid said, and Prentiss frowned.

“Maybe, if the kills were quick, or at least similar, but this guy takes time. He has a place that he takes them, and the newspapers suggest that he picked these people for a reason.” She argued.

“The unsub might be a vigilante,” Reid moved on to his next point, tapping one of the photographs idly, “it does seem to be planned, like there’s a sequence for each victim. The method of torture is specific to each victim, the same as the way they were killed.”

“So, he’s killing them for a reason, as a kind of punishment for some perceived wrong doing.” Hotch suggested.

“Unfortunately, that doesn’t give us any way to narrow down who might be next.” Rossi said, “We still need to figure out why these victims, why the particular MOs.”

Morgan held up one of the pictures of Monroe, “Considering the torture for each one, I think we can make some safe bets on why. Monroe, the teacher, with the rape I’d say if we look into him, there’s been some marks on his record.”

“Osborne might have mistreated the children in her care,” Hotch said, while Prentiss and Morgan exchanged a look. It wouldn’t be the first time they’d encountered an abusive foster mother.

“And it’s possible that Barnett beat his kids, or his wife.” Rossi offered, remembering what he had read about the man’s background. Sadly, nothing that they’d listed as reasons for the torture was as rare as people liked to think. Rossi was sure that Reid could give them all the statistics on each particular set of crimes. Rossi didn’t envy the kid that.

“We’ll have to check, talk to their families, work mates, and Garcia can run a background check. We need to be sure of the facts before we mention anything about possible reasons to the locals.” Hotch said, and they nodded. They didn’t need it getting out, people would jump on the bandwagon pretty quickly if they thought there might be a reason for these people to have deserved their fate.

“I’ll make sure the media don’t catch onto that angle.” JJ said. It might be a difficult sell, but she would find a way to keep the details from the media for as long as possible.

“Getting back to the unsub,” Rossi pointed to the photos of Keri, “this is someone who has space to do this. Somewhere that they can keep their victims, somewhere that either no one knows about, or somewhere that’s protected. A basement the wife isn’t allowed to go into, storage place out on the edge of town. Something.”

Hotch nodded, “That’s another thing for Garcia to look into, it should cut down the list of potential suspects.” It would, but not as much as they needed. A lot of houses had basements, and it wasn’t hard to pay in cash for private space. Chances were, that was something that they wouldn’t be able to follow up on until they had a suspect in custody.

“There might be a connection between the unsub and the victims.” Prentiss said, “A lot of this seems pretty personal.”

“Or whatever it is that the unsub sees them as being guilty of, is something that they’ve suffered themselves.” Morgan said, and Prentiss nodded.

“Garcia can check on that as well, though it’s possible that they’re all linked by something, with two of them having kids, and the other being a teacher. A list of people who’ve suffered personal losses recently might help, but it could as easily been a while ago, but it’s only now that they’ve been driven to start killing.” Hotch said, voicing the concerns that they all had.

This wasn’t going to be an easy case.

“I hate to be the one to say it,” Rossi said, “but odds are, until we have another victim, anything we come up with is going to be a hard sell.”

“Finding the connection between the victims and the newspapers will help.” Reid said, and they all nodded. Silence fell for a long moment before Hotch spoke.

“Dave, Emily I want you to follow up on Osborne, visit the dump site and talk to her family,” they nodded, both turning to the relevant pages of the files, “Reid, Morgan, take Monroe and do the same, JJ and I will head to the station and get set up.” They all nodded their understanding, and JJ followed Hotch to the smaller table. They needed to present a united front to the sheriff as soon as they arrived.

First impression were always important, even more so in their line of work. They had to keep the locals on their side, do their best not to step on any toes, all while still doing their job.


	3. Two

**Charleston County, South Carolina**

The County Sheriff’s office was a little bigger than JJ had expected, and it had taken the young woman on reception a moment to find out where they needed to be sent, the presence of two FBI agents seeming to fluster her. She was, JJ figured, either pretty new, or it had been a while since the FBI had last visited the county.

The Sheriff himself came down to greet them both, his handshake firm, before he directed them up to the second floor. They had given over an office to the task force that had been formed; the case had only recently become the Sheriff’s responsibility.

Hotch lead the way up the stairs, and JJ followed, taking in their surroundings, which were a little more welcoming than some. The office was at the end of the corridor, taking up most of the east end of the floor, and JJ was relieved. She had been half expecting to find a tiny corner office; it had happened in the past.

From what the Sheriff had told JJ over the phone, they were used to dealing with single murders, all typically easier to solve than these killings. The Sheriff had never had a serial killer active under his watch before, and JJ wasn’t surprised. Charleston County wasn’t the kind of place she imaged finding a surplus of serial killers.

Two detectives, and two deputies were already inside, spaced out around the room, each working on their own work.

One of the detectives, a tall, broad, middle aged man with dark circles under his eyes, was the first to stand, crossing the room to meet them as the door swung shut, “Daniel Yates, Charleston City PD, you folks would be the FBI?”

JJ smiled automatically, recognising the touch of anger in the man’s voice. It wasn’t unusual for them to receive a chilly welcome. “Jennifer Jareau, and this is SSA Hotchner.”

Yates looked at Hotch, his eyes narrowing for a moment before he turned his attention back to JJ, “I’d expected more of you.”

The other detective, a younger man, had stood by then, and offered them an apologetic smile from behind Yates. JJ guessed from that that Yates’ attitude was pretty much universal, rather than it just being a case of him not liking the FBI being called in.

“The others are out visiting the most recent dump sites.” Hotch explained easily, un-swayed by Yates’ attitude, and Yates nodded.

The other detective edged forward, offering them his hand, “Detective Sumner, North Charleston PD. Keri Osbourne was my case.”

The deputies came forward then, Innes, a woman whose blonde hair was pulled back into a bun, and Duncan, a man whose skin was a tone darker than Morgan’s. Both seemed happier to see them than Yates.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure but under the circumstances I’m just grateful that you could come. This case is a weird one.” Innes said, offering them a wan smile. JJ guessed that, after Yates, Innes was the most senior officer in the room.

Yates gave a slight snort, leaning back against the conference table that took up most of the centre of the room. “Some sicko is murdering good people; I wouldn’t call it weird.”

Innes cast a look at Yates, but didn’t answer. That instantly won her points in JJ’s head.

“Have you got room for us?” JJ eyed the room; there was probably enough room, and the ‘task force’ was a tiny one in comparison to most. They just needed to get it set up, then start working.

“How many more of you are there?” Duncan asked.

“Four.” Hotch said, and Duncan hesitated for a moment, as though waiting for Hotch to say something else, before he nodded, shifting his weight a little.

“Should be able to fit us all in here.” Innes commented dryly, then nodded towards the door next to the one that JJ and Hotch had entered through. “There’s bunch of case boards in there, all we need to do is drag them out and we can get all set up.”

JJ didn’t ask why they hadn’t already; she got the impression that in the short time the task force had existed, the four had been trying to find a middle ground to work from. They apparently hadn’t received word of JJ’s request.

JJ followed Innes to the door, aware of Duncan behind her. The quicker they got set up, the better. Meanwhile, Hotch started pressing the two detectives for further details on their cases.

-

Keri Osborne had been dumped on the edge of a park, just a few blocks from her home. Standing as close to the dump site as they could, neither Rossi nor Prentiss had been able to get much from the site. That was the problem with dump sites, they gave you very little to work with.

It was the murder scene that told you the most and the little details of each step of the crime, from acquiring the victim to dumping the victim; those were the things that helped narrow down a profile.

After half an hour at the site they had managed to determine that she had to have been dumped at night, or during the early morning, before people were really up and around. If the unsub had dumped the body at any other time he would have risked being seen, there had been almost no cover, and the park was a popular one, kids running around freely, and houses overlooking it on two sides.

They’d visited during the late afternoon, and it had been difficult to avoid the various children running around the place. Rossi had almost taken a soccer ball to the face, though that had earned him the phone number of the kid’s mother, something he fully intended to boast about to Morgan.

After a few brief conversation with some of the parents, they agreed that they weren’t likely to get anything more from the scene, and had headed back to the car.

They drove the short distance between the dumpsite and the Osborne house in silence. Prentiss doing a final read through of the file while Rossi drove.

The first thing Rossi noticed as they pulled up in front of the house was the lawn. The Osbornes’ front lawn was neater than he had expected, though he would be the first to admit that he always thought, despite knowing better, that abuse would show up in the way that a house was kept. His own parents had been loving and supportive, despite the choices he’d made, and his mother had always been in the garden, small as their garden had been. He’d never thought that a bad mother would be able to keep a garden as well as his own.

Looking at the Osborne’s garden, he couldn’t help but note just how wrong he’d been. Maybe she’d spend all of her time in the garden, instead of watching her kids. The path to the front door was ornate, the edges weed free, the borders of seasonal flowers perfect.

Rossi climbed the steps onto the front porch ahead of Prentiss, who was eying the front garden in a way that told him she was thinking the exact same thing he was. You could never tell a thing about a person from how they presented themselves to the world, or at least, you could never be certain of what you saw. He was sure that someone could argue that the neatness of the garden was actually a sign, but that made him wonder what people would think of his own childhood home.

Maybe they would tell him it explained a lot.

Rossi knocked on the door, then stepped back a little, reaching into his inner jacket pocket to pull out his credentials. He held them up as the door opened, revealing a middle aged man leaning hard against the door frame, dark circles under his eyes. “Mr Osborne? Agent Rossi, and Agent Prentiss, FBI, we were wondering if we could talk to you about your wife?”

Osborne stared blankly at them a moment before he nodded. Dave wasn’t sure how much he’d actually taken in, but there wasn’t much he could do about that.

-

Morgan turned on the spot, standing just to one side of where Monroe’s body had been found. They were at the far end of the high school football field, the school building just visible on the horizon.

Reid shifted, a little, uncomfortable under the steady gaze of their audience; a group of high school kids who were sitting up in the bleachers. Morgan didn’t say anything, Reid was always uncomfortable around kids, especially high school kids, and considering his childhood, Morgan couldn’t really blame him for it. It always sucked to be the outsider.

“It’s exposed.” Reid points out, throwing one last nervous glance towards the teenagers before focusing on working the scene. It isn’t the crime scene, it’s only the dumpsite, it can’t tell them as much, but it’s something. “The unsub had to dump the body when there would be no one around to watch.”

Morgan eyed the road, then looked around, searching for any trace of tire tracks. The ground was soft enough that he would expect to find them, “He carried the body out here, so he has to be physically strong.”

Reid nodded, “Or, we could be dealing with more than one unsub.”

Morgan frowned, shaking his head, “It’s too organised, too personal, I don’t think this is something that anyone would share.”

“But it’s possible.” Reid argued, and Morgan nodded, allowing that. They’d dealt with enough killing teams over the years, he knew better than to dismiss it without considering it against all of evidence they had.

Morgan pulled the case file out from the crook of his arm, flipping it open to the crime scene photographs, which showed every detail of the site as it had been found. The body posed, the newspaper positioned just so. Nothing else at the scene looked out of place, nothing disturbed. It was almost like the body and newspaper had just appeared there.

No footprints, no tire treads, no DNA, no fingerprints. Sterile of anything but what the unsub wanted found.

“It would have taken time, to carry the body out here, then arrange it. If it was just the one unsub, he had to have made another trip to grab the newspaper.” Morgan pointed at the crime scene photograph that showed a close up of the newspaper; it wasn’t folded, or stained, as he would have expected, if it had been carried with the body.

Reid nodded again and they both stood in silence for a long moment before Morgan sighed, rubbing the back of his head with his free hand, “We’re not going to get anything more from this scene, we should head to the school, see if there’s anyone there who’ll talk to us.”

-

Most of the teachers were still there, gathered in the staff room. From the atmosphere when they walked in, Morgan guessed that they were still trying to accept what had happened. It had been less than a week since Monroe had gone missing, less than two days since his body had been found within sight of the school buildings. On school grounds.

There was no way that hadn’t had an impact on them all. Staff and students alike.

For a moment Morgan wondered just who had found the body, he couldn’t remember it being mentioned in the file. He would have to remember to chase that up. Knowing who had discovered the body might be important later.

Morgan and Reid stepped into the room, shoulder to shoulder, and Morgan held up his credentials, drawing the attention of the room, “Agent Morgan and Doctor Reid, FBI, we’re here to help investigate Mr Monroe’s death, and we were wondering if any of you would be willing to talk to us?”

Morgan saw the looks a few of the staff threw at Reid, and while it was less than there had been a few years before, it still got his hackles up, just a little. The way people judged so quickly; not that it hadn’t come in handy on occasion.

There was a long moment of silence before a young woman stood up, a ball of tissue clenched in her right hand. “I can answer your questions.”

There were a few more nods around the room, and Morgan was relieved. He’d half expected them to circle the wagons, to do what they could to preserve the school’s reputation. And while that could still happen, it seemed that at least some of them were at least willing to talk.

-

Mr Osbourne lead them down a hallway, into a crowded living area. There weren’t toys scattered, the way Emily would have expected, considering the ages of the foster kids that were living with the Osbournes, instead they were all stored away in various boxes. It was the furniture that seemed to crowd the room, the lounge set bigger than there was really space for in the room.

She glanced sideways, having caught movement out of the corner of her eye. Two kids, aged about eight she guessed, stood in the far doorway, huddled together, their eyes haunted. Emily bit her lip, knowing that she couldn’t afford to express her feelings. They were there to talk to the victim’s husband, get an impression of what she had been like.

They needed him willing to talk, they didn’t need to say or do anything that might give him an excuse to clam up, or kick them out.

Rossi offered her a sympathetic look before he moved further into the room, sitting down on the couch that Osbourne pointed to. Emily gave the kids one last look before she sat beside him, gritting her teeth against the startled gasp; the couch was so soft, it felt like a little like she would just sink straight through.

Osbourne hovered for a moment, looking lost, before he sat down, perching on the edge of one of the armchairs. His hands shook as he clasped them together, rested on his knees. “The police,” he seemed a struggle for a moment before he went on, “I already spoke with the police.”

Rossi nodded, “The sheriff asked if we could help out, and there’s a few questions that we need to ask you, that the police might not have.”

Osbourne was silent for a long moment before he straightened a little, nodding, “If it’s going to keep you catch the person who took my Keri, I’ll answer any questions you have.”

Emily exchanged a look with Rossi, there was an edge of desperation in the man’s voice, and it was hard not to notice how he’d struggled over the word ‘took’. The guy clearly hadn’t even started to deal with the fact that his wife was dead. Emily glanced up, over to the far door again, where a third kid had joined the other two.

She knew that none of the questions they were about to ask would bring up anything the kids shouldn’t hear, but there was a part of her that still wanted them to be elsewhere. Wanted them not to have to hear any of this; their lives were hard enough as it was.

“Did your wife have any enemies?” Rossi started, and Osbourne stared dumbly at him, mouth hanging open, before he shook himself, something resembling anger clouding his expressions.

“No, no, everyone loves Keri, she’s an amazing mother and she keeps the house so tidy. I never know where she finds the time.” Emily watched the kids as their foster father spoke, and they watched her in return. The new arrival, who was older than the others, shook her head as Osbourne spoke.

“Were there ever any comments? Did anyone ever say anything to your wife that upset her?” Emily changed tack. Direct questions weren’t likely to turn up anything helpful, and she knew he would never let them speak to the kids. At the moment he hadn’t noticed that they were watching, and Emily didn’t want to get them into trouble.

Osbourne frowned, shaking his head, “Some people say hurtful things because they’re jealous. We don’t have an enemies, I don’t know who would want to hurt my Keri.”

Rossi shook his head faintly, they weren’t going to get anything useful from Osbourne. He was so caught up in his grief, in the loss of his wife, she had become a perfect thing to be defended. They would learn nothing more from him, apart from what his behaviour screamed.

“I’m sorry that we took up your time Mr. Osbourne.” Rossi stood, and Emily followed suit, offering Osbourne a somewhat brittle smile.

“We are very sorry for your loss.” Emily said, glancing behind him, the girl held up a piece of paper, and motioned. She’d leave it for Emily outside. Emily nodded, just enough for the girl to notice, then returned her attention to Osbourne, following as the man lead them back to the front door.

“Thanks you for coming.” Osbourne said, his voice almost a monotone.

Rossi stepped out onto the porch first, and Emily took her time in following, waiting for the door to close behind, before she stooped to pick up the scrap of folded paper, pushing it into her pocket.

She’d read it when they got to the County Sheriff’s office, where she could be certain that she wouldn’t get the little girl into trouble with her sole remaining foster parent.

-

Their first interview, with the young woman who had volunteered first, hadn’t produced anything helpful. All she’d done had been gush over what a nice man Monroe had been, how he hadn’t deserved to die. She’d clearly been in love with the man, unable to see any faults he had, and more to the point, she hadn’t really known him.

They didn’t share any classes, didn’t even teach the same year groups. She was a new hire, Monroe had been there years.

Spencer, toyed with his pen, letting Morgan take the lead in each of the short interviews. It wasn’t until their last volunteer, the man who had shared an office with Monroe, that Spencer spoke up.

“There were a few, complaints.” Mr Hemp said, sounding doubtful.

“Complaints?” Morgan asked, and Hemp shrugged.

“Some girls, suggested, that he was less than professional with them.”

“You think they were lying?” Spencer asked, just managing to keep the anger from his voice.

Hemp shrugged, “Scott was a handsome man, young, brilliant, most of the girls had a crush on him.” Hemp himself, with his crooked teeth, misshapen nose, and disproportionally wide shoulders, had likely never shared that particular fate. That didn’t lessen the anger Spencer felt though, in the face of the dismissive tone of voice the man was using.

“Was it checked out?” Morgan asked, making it sound like a routine question, that he _had_ to ask.

“The Principal looked into it, nothing come of it.”

And there were no more complaints, Spencer thought to himself, because whatever methods the Principal had used to look into it, had likely made the girls scared to say anything else. Word would have passed around, and people would have known not to look for help from their teachers.

Spencer gritted his teeth. The Principal must have decided that Monroe’s actions hadn’t been too bad, and that the risk of word getting out that the school had employed someone who had showed an inappropriate interest in the girls was too great. The school’s reputation before the safety of the pupils.

“Did any of the staff have any issues with Mr. Monroe?” Morgan asked.

Hemp shook his head, “Not that I heard about, like I said, he was a nice guy. Didn’t have any enemies.”

Morgan smiled, though Spencer could see it was strained, “Thank you for talking to us Mr. Hemp.”

Hemp sat still for another moment before he nodded standing and hurrying out of the room.

Morgan slumped in his chair, muttering something under his breath, which Spencer pretended not to hear.

“The Principal won’t talk to us, nor will the Vice Principal.” Spencer knew he didn’t need to say it, but he had to break the silence.

Morgan sighed, nodding, “No, because then we might find out that Monroe was behaving inappropriately with some of his female students, and they can’t have that getting out.”

-

The two teams arrived at the County Sheriff’s office within an hour of each other, two hours after landing, to find JJ and Hotch already set up in the conference room, a victim per case board. JJ made the introductions, watching the interactions between the locals and her team mates.

The only one of them that Yates seemed to warm to was Rossi, something that didn’t surprise JJ. Rossi tended to have that effect on Yates’ type. It took them a few minutes to get settled, the BAU team taking over one side of the conference table, while the locals took the other side, Sumner grouping himself with the deputies while Yates sat with an empty chair either side of him.

“What did you find out?” Hotch asked, and Rossi and Prentiss exchanged a look. Rossi cast one glance down the table, then met Hotch’s gaze, quirking any eyebrow, and Hotch nodded, “Nothing will leave this room until we’re certain of the facts.” He made it clear, with his tone of voice, that it was as much an order as it was a statement.

JJ watched Yates clench is jaw, surprised when no one opposed Hotch. She just had to hope that they actually did as told.

“Osborne was mistreating her foster children,” Rossi said not softening the statement it at all, his expression grim, and Prentiss nodded along, mouth drawn into a thin line. “The husband didn’t say it, but we saw the kids. Not a one of them looked especially healthy.”

“The husband didn’t look great either,” Prentiss added, “he was grieving, but it was like he didn’t know what to do without her telling him what to do anymore.”

JJ winced a little at that, wondering what it would like the day when it finally sunk in that he was free. His reaction could go either way she guessed, and there wasn’t much they could do about it. She frowned, pulling out her blackberry and making a quick note. She _could_ let the relevant agencies know, for the kids’ sake.

There was a beat of silence, as they waited to see if Prentiss or Rossi would add anything more, than Morgan spoke.

“There were unofficial complaints against Monroe, but they were mostly dismissed.” Morgan said, “He was a good looking guy and it’s like they figured the girls were just annoyed that he’d turned them down.”

JJ and Prentiss both made disgusted faces, and Hotch’s eyes narrowed, but none of them commented. Sadly, it wasn’t the first time they’d heard that excuse. Anything to make it sound like the victim had asked for what they’d got, even when they hadn’t.

“So you think that’s it?” Sumner asked. “You think that’s why they died?”

“It’s a possibility that each of the victims died because of a wrong that the unsub believed they had committed.” Hotch said, “But at the moment it’s still just a theory.”

Innes frowned, “It sounds like a bit more than a theory, though I guess there’s still Barnett’s family and friends to question.”

Prentiss nodded, “We have to be sure that it’s not just a coincidence.”

Yates snorted, “The woman was mistreating her kids, the teacher had complaints against him, doesn’t sound like a coincidence.”

Hotch frowned at Yates, “Osbourne might not have been intentionally mistreating her foster children, she might have been raised to believe that there was a certain way to bring up children. It’s worth talking to her case worker, and getting their opinion.”

Yates’ eye narrowed, “No excuse for the teacher?”

Hotch didn’t blink, “We need to cover all possibilities, make sure that we aren’t making assumptions. If it is the reason the unsub picked them, the profile will be very different than if it isn’t.”

Yates shook his head, pushing his chair back from the table, “I’m going to head out, go talk to Barnett’s work mates, see if I can help you folks out with your theory.”

No one said anything until the door swung closed behind Yates. Sumner let out a breath, shaking his head, “I’ll head out myself, see if I can get hold of Osbourne’s case worker, you want to talk to her yourselves?”

JJ nodded, “If possible.”

Sumner nodded, standing and collecting something from his pile of notes, “I’ll let you know when I’m headed back.”

“Thanks.” JJ said, then glanced at the two deputies, who were moving to stand.

“We can chase up Monroe’s girlfriend, and his family,” Innes said, “do you mind if we question them, or do you want to do that yourselves?”

“Odds are they aren’t going to give us anything we can work with,” Morgan said, “the only people who might be able to confirm his, interests, are the girls in his classes, or the Principle.”

Innes winced, “That’ll be a hard sell.”

Rossi nodded, “The girlfriend is likely the best bet, but you won’t be able to question her directly about it.”

“You want us to ask what he said about his classes? If there were any kids he had issues with?” Duncan asked, and Rossi nodded again.

“He might have complained about the girls that reported him, and the girlfriend might tell you about it. Watch and see if she starts to say anything then stops.” Rossi explained, and both deputies nodded their understanding.

“We’ll give you a report when we get back.” Innes said, then lead the way out of the room.

“Yates is going to be a joy to work with.” Rossi said, and Prentiss snorted.

“He doesn’t seem happy that we were called in.” JJ said, “But the first victim is his case, it might be that he doesn’t entirely buy the serial killer theory either.”

“So just be careful not to rustle his feathers too much.” Morgan translated, and JJ rolled her eyes.

Hotch moved, positioning one of their laptops in the middle of conference table, just as a video box appeared on the screen. Garcia greeted them with her usual enthusiasm and they all took up positions so that they were within the camera’s range. Garcia was always happier when she could see them all.

“I have completed my initial background check on your victims, and I have to say, there’s nothing here that might connect them. Different doctors, dentists, they lived and worked in different places, there is little to no visible crossover between these three.” Garcia said, waving at the screens to one side of her. “I have also not had any success with the newspaper angle.”

“Garcia, do any of them have records?” Hotch asked.

Garcia shook her head, “Osborne and Monroe are clean, though there have been a number of transfers out of the school recently, mostly girls. Barnett is another matter; there are medical records for his kids, and his wife, that suggest he used to beat them on a fairly regular basis. He doesn’t have much of a criminal record though. Just a few arrests after bar brawls. They never charged him for anything, they couldn’t prove how the kids and wife got injured.”

“There aren’t any complaints on file with the school or social services?” JJ asked. She knew that Garcia had probably checked, but she wanted to be sure.

Garcia shook her head, looking a little pained, “No complaints, but if you read behind the lines of some of the reports on them, by the Principal and case worker respectively, people suspected that there might be something there. If there were complaints, they never made it onto official digital records, a fact that makes me distinctly uncomfortable.”

“You and me both, baby girl.” Morgan said, and she offered him a smile in reply.

“How about Monroe’s students?” Prentiss asked, drawing everyone’s attention. “I know that we’re not going to get to ask them but is there anything online, any openly accessible blogs, anywhere that they might have made public their feelings about him?”

Garcia chewed on her bottom lip for a moment, typing away furiously, her attention on another of her screens, “They probably have some nickname for him, but I can see if they ever referred to him by name, and see if any comments of the icky teacher kind came from IP addresses in your area, but that could take me a while.”

“That’s fine Garcia, just let us know if you find anything.” Hotch said, and Garcia nodded, looking back to them, her hands stilling. Garcia would turn back to that search once she knew there was nothing else they wanted from her, JJ knew.

“Nothing we have is going to help narrow down potential victims.” Morgan said, and JJ winced. Normally that was what they would be doing, profiling the unsub and determining who might be his next victim, so that they could do everything possible to make them aware that they might be at risk.

There was a pause then Rossi spoke, theorising out loud as he did on occasion, “So, our working theory is, they were all punished for something that they had done, something that the unsub had to have known about,” Rossi commented, “now we just have to find all of the people in the area who have done something, but not been punished.” He shook his head, leaning back in his chair, “It’s not going to be a small victim pool.”

Garcia’s eyes had widened as Rossi spoke. “Sir, there’s not much that I can find out from searches, if these are people who weren’t caught.” It was clear that she was remembering the events of a year prior, when she’d had to investigate the inhabitants of a town that had been targeted by an arsonist, out for revenge against the people who had wronged him.

Hotch shook his head, “We have some time here, potentially, which means we can do as much work as possible ourselves. He’s only been taking one victim at the time, so far.” That had been the main factor that had forced Hotch’s hand with the case in Royale. Their unsub there had been killing groups of people, racking up a high victim count in a very short period of time.

That wasn’t their current unsub. This was a guy with a plan, who was taking his time carrying out each murder. The only time he was likely to start speeding up was if he felt threatened, and JJ seriously doubted that would happen anytime soon.

“He probably has a list.” Reid commented, “He’s working through it one at a time. All of his kills so far have been planned. He knew when he could take them and not be seen.”

“There’s got to have been a recent trigger.” Prentiss added, “Something that made him start this now, something that relates to the way he’s killing these people.”

“He’s working up to the person he really wants to kill.” Hotch commented, eying the victim boards, “He’s working up already, abusive husband, to abusive foster mother, to the abusive teacher.”

“So, we’re looking for a potential victim that’s a progression from the first three?” Morgan asked, frowning at the boards. It was a hard one to call. How did you rank crimes? He frowned, spotting another detail, “Each of them has more victims. Barnett it was just his wife and two kids. Osborne, her husband and four foster kids, at the moment, there’ve been more in the past. Monroe, any girl in the school, for as long as he was teaching there.”

“So it isn’t just a progression in severity of potential crime committed, it’s a progression in number of people affected.” Rossi nodded, “Makes sense. Now, how do you work that into a viable list of possible suspects?”

“With great difficulty.” Hotch answered dryly.


	4. Three

Three days later, they still haven’t gotten any closer to reducing the number of potential victims, and they still don’t have enough to finalize a profile.

They’ve got it down to the basics; they were likely looking for a white man, in his thirties to forties, who was local. The unsub was organised, likely trailed his victims in order to learn the best time to abduct them, and likely had a plan. There isn’t yet enough data for a geographic profile; they need at least two more murders for that.

They didn’t have much, and it hadn’t cut down the number of suspects by much at all. Nor had it made Yates warm to them any.

They had managed to find the connection between the newspapers and the victims. Nick Barnett’s son had been in a photo of his soccer team, his arm in a cast, Keri Osbourne had been in an article about fostering kids, and Scott Monroe had been photographed with his class, after they won a competition. Each one proof of how the victim’s crime had gone unpunished and unnoticed.

Hotch sighed, looking up at the map that took up the central case board, three black pins showing where each body had been found, three more red ones marked the places where each victim was last seen alive. There was nothing worse than having to wait for another victim in order to stop a killer.

The door to the conference room swung open, as a dishevelled Deputy Innes entered, coming to a halt just a few steps into the room. She looked more worn than she had the night before. “We’ve got another one.”

Hotch gritted his teeth, mentally cursing. He hated these cases, the ones that seemed to be about waiting; it always felt better to be doing something, to have something to hold onto when the next victim was found. When you didn’t, you were doomed to spend your nights wondering ‘what if’.

“They found a newspaper with the body?” Hotch asked, wanting to be sure. It was two days early, or at least it was according to the timeline they had noticed with the other three murders.

Innes hesitated, “Not with it, but close by.”

“Close by?” Dave echoed, and Innes nodded grimly.

“The fire brigade called us in on this one.” Innes explained.

Hotch winced, wondering what this victim could have done to lead to that particular choice of punishment. Odds were the newspaper would only offer a suggestion as to what, and only once they ID’d the victim.

“Another escalation.” Reid said, quietly, toying with the wet marker in his hands.

“They’re preserving the scene for you all, but there’s only so long they can do that.” Innes shifted a little, the only outward sign of how she was feeling.

Hotch considered his options quickly before turning to the others, “Dave, Morgan, Reid go with Deputy Innes to the scene, see what you can find out.” Normally he would have only sent the two, but they couldn’t afford to miss anything. The more eyes, with the more varied knowledge, the better.

They all nodded, grabbing their coats before following Innes out of the room.

JJ sighed heavily once they were out of the room, sagging in her chair a little, “I wish there was something we could tell people.”

They’d been holding off on making a statement to the press, the only information they had would only make the situation worse. They didn’t need the locals making the unsub into a hero or for people to start a witch hunt.

“Hopefully this will give us what we need to narrow down the profile.” Prentiss said, resting her chin on her hand as she eyed the case boards.

“He’s ahead of schedule,” Hotch said; as much as he would like to offer then some words of comfort, all he could do was get them to focus back on the case, “which means he may well be a step closer to confronting the real source of his anger.”

“The person he most wants to punish.” Prentiss said darkly.

“Or, he knows we’re here,” JJ pointed out, “which is pretty much common knowledge.” She waved a hand at the copy of the local paper that Dave had brought that morning. An article at the bottom of the front page discussed their arrival, and gave several theories on why they had been called in.

Hotch knew that they would have to make a statement by the end of the day; he just hoped that they had something more to say than ‘we’re here to help the local police with a difficult investigation’.

He sighed, glancing at the stack of paper that represented the list Garcia had sent them, of people in the local community who had suffered a recent loss, or had had something else happen to them that might have pushed them over the edge; started them down the road to killing.

It was a long list, even when cut down to just white men, over the age of thirty.

He frowned, pulling his laptop closer and sending Garcia a message, waiting for her to appear on screen. If this victim was the same as the others, the nature of the death would directly link to their apparent crime. There would be records of any suspicious fires, and that would give them something to work with while they waited for the others to return.

-

Bits of ash drifted past on the wind as the three men climbed out of the SUV. Innes was already on the sidewalk, arms crossed over her stomach as she waited for them. Fire trucks still lined the end of the street, even though the fire had died hours before. The shell of a small industrial unit, the concrete walls blackened, it wasn’t what Rossi had expected to see when Innes had told them another body had been found.

Rossi frowned, considering what it might mean. The other victims had all been left close to the places they had committed their crimes, odds were, if this was their unsub, the same would be true. It was something worth mentioning when they got back to the others.

They walked forward as a group, and Rossi looked around as they walked, making note of the setting. There was more privacy here than the other dump sites; less risk of being caught meant that the unsub would have been able to take his time.

Innes motioned to one of the firemen as they reached the cordon, and he walked over, or rather _she_ walked over. Rossi cursed his own assumptions, and hoped that his surprise hadn’t shown in his face.

“Captain Henderson, these are Agents Rossi, Morgan, and Doctor Reid,” Innes introduced them quickly, and Henderson nodded, eying each of them in turn. Rossi found himself warming to her; there was something in the way she held herself that spoke of experience and confidence.

Henderson motioned for them to duck under the cordon, “I’ll let you folks take a look at the body from a distance, then I’ll show you the newspaper.”

“Is the building unsafe?” Morgan asked, and Henderson shook her head.

“The fire didn’t burn all that hot, most of the damage is relatively superficial really, this guy didn’t use any serious accelerants. He crafted a fire that would do exactly what he needed, nothing more, nothing less. The only reason it got as bad as it did was because no one noticed it for so long.” Henderson explained, before coming to a stop, just short of the building, “That said, I’d rather you looked from a distance, less people disturb stuff the better. Plus, I’d rather not have a fed injured on my scene.”

Morgan smiled, “Fair enough.”

Henderson returned the smile, then nodded to the building, leading them a little closer, clearly having a place in mind for them to stand. “Coroner wants to move this guy as soon as possible.”

“We won’t take long.” Rossi said. They were used to only getting a limited amount of time, had learned to work with what they got.

Henderson halted them at a spot right in what must have been the doorway, not saying anything. Rossi fought back a grin, turning his attention instead to what he could see inside the wreckage of the building. There were a few people moving amongst the rubble, but it wasn’t hard to spot the body.

Rossi winced; on the list of ways he did not want to die, fire was pretty high. It was hard to tell if the body had been posed like the others, but from the scraps of nylon rope that he could just about make out, he had a feeling that hadn’t been the case.

The unsub hadn’t posed the body, because when he’d left, his victim had still been alive.

-

Emily looked up from the file she’d been reading through as Morgan, Reid, and Rossi walked back into the room. While they’d been gone, both Yates and Sumner had come and gone, running their own set of errands.

“How did it go?” she asked, eyeing the pieces of ash that had caught in their hair.

“Our guy has claimed his fourth victim.” Rossi said, settling into the free chair across from her, and sliding a cardboard cup of coffee across to her.

Morgan and Reid both claimed seats, handing JJ and Hotch coffees. Emily took a long drink of her own, mulling over how the use of fire to kill his latest victim might affect the profile. In all honesty, she wasn’t sure it affected it at all.

They’d already determined he was using methods particular to the victims, reflecting their crimes back onto them. Fire wasn’t their unsub’s weapon of choice, it had instead been necessary to the ritual he had developed.

In his mind, there had been no other way to punish his latest victim.

“He’s escalating, and now he’s reducing the amount of time between victims.” Morgan broke the silence that had fallen over the room.

“Which means he isn’t going to wait another week before he takes another victim,” Emily said, glancing at the case boards, she couldn’t help but wonder how the next victim would die. She knew it wouldn’t be pretty.

“And we don’t even know who his latest victim is.” JJ added.

“I think there might be a way to narrow it down,” Rossi said, “all of the other victims were dumped close to where they committed their crimes, so we look into fires that occurred in that area.”

“It should be in the newspaper,” Reid said, standing and crossing the room to the stack of boxes filled with newspapers. While Reid hunted for their copy of the newspaper the unsub had left with his latest victim, Hotch passed Rossi a copy of the list Garcia had sent though. Every fire that had resulted in injuries, or in a few cases, fatalities, in the last twenty years was listed.

“This is quite a list.” Rossi commented, flipping through to the sixteenth page and wincing.

Morgan pulled out his mobile, flipping it open and hitting speed dial.

“You have reached Penelope Garcia, knower of all things worth knowing. Ask and I shall provide answers.”

Emily smiled at Garcia’s greeting. Sometimes she wished that Garcia could travel with them, if only to provide some brightness in person, but it wouldn’t be fair on the other woman. The cases that called for Garcia to accompany them were almost always some of their worst.

Better that Garcia be safe in her office, tucked away behind her screens, surrounded by her colourful trinkets, and numerous stuffed toys.

“Hey there mama, you know that list of fires you sent Hotch? We’ve got some data that should cut it down some.”

“Shoot.” Garcia ordered, and Emily could picture her, hands posed over her keyboard.

“The fire would have been within a two mile radius of where the latest victim was found.” Rossi said.

“Ok, any changes on the dates?” Garcia asked.

“Look around the 19th of March two years ago.” Morgan said, and Emily guessed he had to be thinking of the newspaper that had been left at the scene. She just hoped the unsub hadn’t chosen a retrospective article.

“That gives three fires, which occurred over a period of a month. They didn’t have any leads.” Garcia provided, her voice holding a little less cheer than it had before. Emily braced herself, ready for whatever it was that had drained Garcia’s good mood. “All three were house fires, that started in basements, no one died, but there were injuries.”

“Burns?” Emily asked, though she was certain she already knew the answer. Setting fires wouldn’t have been reason enough for the punishment the unsub had meted out.

“One of the kids in the second house suffered serious burns to her right leg, and three of the family from the third house spent an excessive amount of time in hospital. From the report, it sounds like they were lucky to survive.” Garcia said, “And what sucks the most is that according to the reports, all three were ruled accidental. They couldn’t tie anyone to all three houses, so the case went cold.”

“Well someone figured out who was responsible.” JJ said.

“Or, thought they did.” Rossi returned, shaking his head, and Emily frowned at him. She hadn’t needed that possibility to be brought up. It was easier looking at the case from the perspective that the victims had all done something that had attracted the unsub’s wrath; she didn’t want to have to consider that the unsub might be working on assumptions.

It might not be nice, to find it easier to see the victims as people being punished for things they’d done, but at least from that angle she could contain her anger at the unsub. She could understand how watching people commit crimes, then go unpunished, could drive someone to do this. She couldn’t understand someone who created crimes for their victims, who took a person and fixed them to a crime.

“Could be our victim was an electrician. Maybe they worked off the books for the families, and it was the wiring they fixed that caused the fires.” Morgan said.

“And with that thought in mind,” Garcia interrupted before Morgan could say anymore, “there is a list of local electricians winging its way to you as we speak.”

“Thank you Garcia.” Hotch spoke for the first time since the others had returned, and Emily looked across at him, watching as he frowned down at the papers he had spread in front of him.

Morgan flipped his phone shut, just as Reid sat back down in the chair to Morgan’s right, newspaper in hand. Reid spread the newspaper out, letting them all see the article he had found. Half of a page, close to the middle of the newspaper, had been devoted to an update on the status of the families affected, complete with a picture of one of the injured kids.

JJ made a little noise, and Emily knew what her friend was thinking. The boy in the picture could have been JJ’s son, Henry. It didn’t seem fair that a child had to suffer like that, but it still wasn’t an excuse for what the unsub had done.

Emily stilled, running the thought through her head again, she looked up to find Hotch watching her. He raised as eyebrow, and she fought the urge to flush. Hotch was one of the few people who could still make her feel a little nervous, and she hoped it made her that little bit better at her job.

“They all involve kids.” she said, drawing the others attention, “Every one of the victims, their crimes were against children. The articles in the newspapers, it’s always a photo of a child.”

“Which means it’s very likely that, whatever drove this unsub to start killing involved a child.” Hotch finished, and Emily nodded, her gaze locked with Hotch’s. One more step towards a complete profile; one more factor to use to cut down their suspect list.

Their unsub was most likely a parent.

-

A day passed with little news, each of them working on a different angle. They had two suspect lists, one with parents who had lost a child, or had had their children threatened, the other broader, including men who worked closely with children, as well as any men who had a connection to a child who had died or been hurt; that one included uncles and godfathers.

The lists were still long, but they were shorter than the previous lists; it felt like progress.

Yates and Sumner both reported in, having nothing more to offer on the earlier cases. Prentiss had spent the day talking to the families affected by the fires, along with Deputy Innes, while Reid had turned his attention to the map. They still didn’t have quite enough information for a geological profile to be effective, the points were still too random. There was no tell-tale void. All they could say was the unsub had to be local.

That was something that all of the information they had was telling them. The unsub was local, most likely born and bred in the area, and very aware of what was happening in the community around them.

Morgan and Dave had been searching through the newspapers, a thankless job, hunting for any articles that might draw the unsub’s attention. It was a hard one to gauge, lacking local knowledge as they were, so they had ended up drawing Duncan in to help.

Hotch and JJ had spent the day talking to the newspaper staff, hoping they might have some insight, in return for a brief statement. It wasn’t a press conference, but it would have to do. The case was too sensitive to release details, and as much as Hotch wished they could, it would be impossible to warn possible victims.

He didn’t want to start a witch hunt, or cause any guilty parties to decide to leave the county.

Innes stepped into the conference room, took one look around then walked over to Hotch. It was only him and JJ left, the others had all gone out, following up on some of the stories that had been flagged the day before. They had a day of interviews to get through, without tipping anyone off to why they were to talking to who they were.

Though Hotch knew that it was very likely that at least some of the locals had twigged; they read the same newspaper the unsub did, were part of the same community. They had everything they needed to lead them to the same conclusion; they were just more likely to be happy with their denial.

“They think they have an ID,” Innes said, “and they’ve finished the autopsy, there are a few things that the pathologist wants to show you folks.” Innes’ gaze drifted to JJ then back to Hotch. Innes respected them all, Hotch could tell, but that was because they were feds, not because she necessarily believed in what they did. She’d shrugged the few times that Duncan had muttered to her about common sense. But Innes’ hadn’t quite figured out their individual roles.

JJ, aware of Innes’ gaze, joined them by the conference table. “Have they ID’d the victim?”

Innes nodded, “Dental records say he’s John Milton; his brother reported him missing yesterday.”

JJ picked up the list of electricians Garcia had sent over and scanned though it, her mouth thinning. Milton’s name was on it, Hotch didn’t have to look himself, JJ’s expression said enough. “So we were right.”

“Unfortunately,” Hotch said, “that means we have nothing to add to the profile, other than what we figured out yesterday.”

JJ sighed and nodded, rubbing a hand wearily over her eyes. It had been a long few days.

“From the way that Doctor Kyle, the pathologist, was talking, I think maybe whatever it is he wants to show you might be helpful.” Innes said, and Hotch recognised her tone of voice. When Innes wanted them to do something, now, she never said it, she just emphasised certain words. She was never happy with how slowly they reacted to things she considered important. Under different circumstances, Hotch thought he would have found it less irritating than he did.

JJ frowned at Innes, then looked at Hotch, raising an eyebrow. It was his choice to make, he knew.

“I’ll go and see Doctor Kyle. Milton’s family needs to be notified, and you need to see if they’ll be willing to come in and talk to us.” Hotch said, and JJ nodded.

“Should I let the others know?”

Hotch nodded, “And if it looks like I’m not going to be back before Milton’s family arrives, call Rossi and Prentiss.”

JJ nodded again, pulling her mobile from its holster and moving away, standing by the window as she dialled. Satsified that JJ would have enough to do, without him taking her with him to see the pathologist, Hotch turned back to Innes.

“Do you need directions?” Innes asked, hand drifting to the notepad that stuck out of one of her pockets, “Or would you rather I drive you over there?”

Hotch shook his head, “I’m sure I can find my way.” He’d visited Doctor Kyle before, on their second day on the case, to ask about the other three victims. The pathologist hadn’t been able to say anything for certain, other than that he doubted that a woman would have been capable of inflicting the wounds on any of them.

Hotch hoped that the man had more to say now.

-

John Milton’s brother, in Rossi’s opinion, hadn’t known his brother very well at all.

It didn’t matter what the question was, if it involved John Milton’s personal life in anyway, Finn’s only answer was to shrug and say it wasn’t something he would know anything about.

John’s business, on the other hand, that Finn had been able to tell them about in great detail. It was, it seemed, the family business, though John had never been quite as good as the other men in their family. He struggled with some of the more complicated things, Finn has explained, though he had said that John was better with the little fiddly bits. Smaller hands apparently.

Rossi groaned as he dropped into a chair, back in the safety of the conference room. The two hours spent talking to Finn Milton had dragged, and hadn’t really turned up any useful information; it had just confirmed their suspicion that John Milton had been ultimately responsible for the three fires. It had, after all, been almost two years since John had last worked a job alone.

JJ stepped into the room, carrying yet another stack of files. Rossi didn’t know where she was getting them, but the conference room was slowly filling with paperwork. Another week on the case and they wouldn’t be able to get in for all the paper.

He watched as JJ slowed, a frown forming on her face as she glanced from Rossi to Prentiss, “Hotch still isn’t back?”

Rossi frowned, shaking his head, “You haven’t heard from him?”

“He called, about an hour ago, to say that he had finished up with Doctor Kyle and was headed back.” JJ answered, worry tinging her voice, and Rossi couldn’t blame her for it. It wasn’t like Hotch not to have called to say he was stuck in traffic, or following some lead, or getting food.

And it sure as hell didn’t take more than fifteen minutes to get from the morgue to the Sheriff’s department.

JJ placed her load down onto the table, then pulled out her phone, “I’ll call him.”

Rossi nodded, pulling out his own phone, a sense of dread building in the pit of his stomach. He could remember, all too well, what had happened the last time Hotch hadn’t been answering his calls.

-

 

Reid was the last one back to the station, and he looked panicked, his hair messier than normal. Reid looked, Rossi thought, like he suspected they were all feeling. It had been months, over a year since Hotch had been attacked in his apartment, but the memories of Foyet were still there, just as painful as ever.

“He hasn’t been back to the hotel.” Reid said, his hands clenched, then unclenched as he shifted his weight. He wasn’t helping Rossi’s own mood any.

JJ chewed on her bottom lip, her arms crossed over her stomach, “No one’s seen him since he left the morgue, Doctor Kyle said that everything seemed normal, and Hotch didn’t mention any plans to look into anything else.”

“His SUV is in the car park.” Reid’s posture is a mirror of JJ’s, and Rossi finds himself struck, yet again, but just how young Reid is. He’s not sure he can remember being that young.

Rossi winced, that was the one thing that had thrown them all. After repeated attempts to contact Hotch had failed, JJ had headed downstairs, only to spot the SUV parked in the car park; something they were struggling to explain.

There was only really one possibility, though it was one that Rossi was loath to support. It just didn’t make any sense.

“Is it possible that the unsub took Hotch?” Morgan asked the question Rossi had been avoiding, “How likely is it that the unsub took an armed FBI agent from the car park of the County Sheriff’s Department and no one saw or heard anything?”

There’s a lot of anger behind Morgan’s words, especially the last few, and as much as Rossi agrees with Morgan, he also knows they can’t afford to anger.

“Or, we have another unsub.” Prentiss offered, and while Rossi knew it should sound better, it didn’t. It sounded much much worse. They already had the one unsub to catch, they didn’t need another one.

“Those are things that we need to consider.” He keeps his tone even, holding back his own frustration. It’s between him and Morgan, the position of senior agent in Hotch’s absence, and Morgan doesn’t seem to be thinking about it, which leaves it to Rossi.

“What can we do?” Garcia asks, her voice worried, and Rossi feels for her, stuck miles away, “If it’s the same unsub as has been killing all these people, that’s not a good thing for Hotch is it? And if it isn’t, what does it mean? Why now?”

Rossi sighed, trying to think of something to say to help them, but he can’t think of anything. It’s bad enough that have an escalating serial killer to catch, without a missing team mate being added to the mix. There was a tension in the room that told him they were all thinking of another time, another case that he hadn’t been present on, and he was certain he didn’t want to know which one.

“It’s more likely it’s the same unsub.” Reid said, and Rossi could tell that the kid was purposefully keeping his sentences short and to the point. No excessive detail, just the key points.

“Why would the unsub take Hotch?” Prentiss asked, and Rossi had to admit he’d been wondering the same thing. There were reasons why an unsub might abduct one of the investigators on their case, but normally it happened later in the game, after a press conference, or after the investigators had made some breakthrough.

It also didn’t fit their unsub’s MO. Hotch didn’t fit the victim type.

Rossi sighed, “I know you don’t want to hear this, but we need to focus on the victims we have. We can’t drop the case to find Hotch.” He hated the words, even as he said them, but it was true. They could not put finding Hotch above the possible victims their unsub could kill while they were distracted.

Prentiss shifted, glancing around at the others; of the four of them, she was the least visibly affected, but she was too damn good at compartmentalising. She could be falling apart and it wouldn’t show anywhere near as clearly as it should. “So what do we do? Split up?”

He could tell that she was thinking of the last time Hotch vanished, of her own separate investigation as they’d worked the original case. She didn’t need that kind of weight on her again. “We’re going to have to work on the assumption that Hotch was taken by the same unsub.”

“What if it isn’t?” Prentiss pushed, and Rossi sighed.

“We get talk to the Sheriff, ask if he can have his people search for Hotch. We can’t afford to split up, but we can cover all our bases.” Rossi said, and the others all relaxed, just a little.

“So, our unsub took Hotch.” Morgan said, resting his back against the edge of the conference table, his arms crossed over his chest, expression grim. “What does it tell us?”

“Something’s changed.” Prentiss answered.

“It’s a break in his pattern.” Reid pointed out, “Hotch doesn’t match his victim type.”

“And Hotch isn’t local.” Morgan said, and Rossi winced, Garcia squeaking at almost exactly the same instant.

The others looked between the two of them, Rossi in the room with them, Garcia on the computer screen, confused. Rossi sighed heavily, cursing Hotch’s nature. Hotch rarely talked about himself, and when he did it tended to be about more recent things, he didn’t talk about his childhood. Rossi also doubted that Hotch had ever really talked about anything but Haley, Jack, and work to his team. “Hotch grew up close by.”

None of them reacted for a long moment, and then Morgan turned and slammed a fist into the wall. Rossi was grateful that the wall was solid enough to take the beating; he had enough to worry about without having to explain hole in the wall to the locals.

Prentiss sighed. “So we treat it like the same unsub.”

Rossi nodded, and they all looked at the case boards. From photos of Milton, newly added by JJ while they’d been interviewing the man’s brother, to Barnett. The full range of what their unsub had so far shown himself to be capable of.

Rossi breathed out, one long deep breath, and prayed.


	5. Four

Hotch woke laid out on a cold concrete floor, his head throbbing in time with his heartbeat. He groaned, rolling over onto his back, and squinting up at the ceiling. The room was lit by a single bare bulb that hung from the ceiling. The light didn’t quite reach the sides of the room, leaving the corners in darkness.

And then there was the smell, one that Hotch recognised from countless crime scenes; old blood mixed with human waste. The room smelt exactly as he expected an unsub’s torture chamber to smell.

Somehow that was disappointing.

The last thing he could remember, before waking, was closing the car door, his phone out and in his other hand. He couldn’t remember what had happened next. All he could think was that he’d been knocked out, somehow, in the middle of the car park, within sight of the Sheriff’s office, in broad daylight, without a single person noticing.

He frowned at the ceiling, there was something nagging at him, as though he could almost remember what had happened; or maybe, there was something he knew he should know.

Hotch sighed, shaking his head, frustrated, only to still, the movement having made him nauseous, and causing the pain in his head to flare. It felt like his head was in a vise, one that was slowly being edged closed around it. He took a deep breath through his mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit. Whatever it was that had been used to knock him out, it was making his nauseous, and was probably the cause of his headache. He couldn’t think what it might be, though he knew, if his head had been a little clearer, had felt a little less like it was stuffed full of cotton, he would have been able to name what had been used on him.

The only good thing, he supposed, was that his kidnapper hadn’t hit him. Drugs were better than a beating. The effects of drugs wore off; the effects of a concussion could last for weeks.

Though drugs could be worse than a concussion. It was just a matter of what drugs were used.

Hotch shuddered, trying not to let images of Reid in Georgia, as he’d looked via grainy video feed, invade his head. Now wasn’t the time to dwell on the past, or what could be, he needed to move, assess his situation.

He waited until he’d gotten the urge to throw up under control before he rolled onto his front again, pushing himself into a kneeling position. He wasn’t tied up; there was nothing other than the after effects of the drugs to limit his movements.

The door would be locked. That much he could guess. Windows, if there were any, and he couldn’t see any, would be barred and locked as well. He wouldn’t have been left unbound unless there was something else to keep him were they wanted him to be.

Hotch did his best not to think about the warehouse in St Louis. He wasn’t in a maze, there wasn’t going to be some series of challenges preventing him escaping. His captor wasn’t going to toy with him, dangling the hope of escape in front of him, just to snatch it away at the last moment.

He wished, suddenly, that he didn’t find it so easy to draw cases to mind. His own imagination alone would have been bad enough, but fuelled with knowledge, it was even worse. He couldn’t argue that no one was capable of doing the things he was imagining.

He took a moment to consider who might have taken him, though it was difficult to focus. If he’d been taken by the unsub, and odds where he had, he would tortured and then he would be killed.

Hotch could list the ways that he wasn’t going to die. The unsub didn’t seem to like repeats. Each one of the unsub’s victims had died in a different way, but there were still plenty of options left.

Hotch winced, trying not to think of all of the different ways he knew people could be killed. There were times when he wished that he didn’t know so much about death. About the ways a person could be made to suffer.

So many reasons to wish to have a different job. To have chosen a different career.

He managed to stand on his second attempt, swaying a little. There wasn’t anything close by that he could use to keep himself upright. He swallowed hard, waiting for the room to stop spinning before he took a step forward, moving towards the wall. He could prop himself up and take a proper look around, or he could walk around the room, one hand against the wall.

There was no way he would be able to get around the room without support. Not with the way he felt.

Hotch stumbled twice crossing the short distance to the wall, and was aware of various aches and pains, all over his body. It felt like he’d fallen or been dragged at some point; he idly catalogued that piece of information with everything he could remember from the files. There was a good chance the unsub was smaller than Hotch.

Hotch leaned against the wall, turning so that he was facing the rest of the room, fighting to focus. His vision was a bit blurred, and the semi-darkness didn’t help as he tried to figure out the layout of the room. It looked like there was a bed against the wall opposite him, the sheets rumpled and stained. Hotch shuddered, remembering the photos of Scott Monroe. He didn’t want, or need, to cross the room to look. It was enough to confirm, in Hotch’s clouded thoughts, it was the same unsub.

Hotch looked away from the bed. There was a chair in the corner closest to the bed, but it was too far into the shadows for Hotch to see if there was any blood on or around it. He guessed there was. The unsub didn’t seem to bother cleaning up after himself; the smell and the state of the bed told Hotch that much.

It was even possible the unsub was leaving the evidence behind on purpose.

If the unsub treated all of his victims the way he was treating Hotch, it seemed likely that everything about the situation was planned. He left the traces of his other kills, his other torture sessions visible for his next victim to see. They could stumble into the pools of blood, or just keep as much distance they could, dreaming up all of the things that could have caused them.

The unsub was letting his victims’ imaginations do some of his work for him.

Hotch tried not to think about the victims then, but as he turned he caught sight of manacles on the other wall, and it was a struggle not to give in to the nausea. He was thankful that he hadn’t headed in that direction. He couldn’t see any blood, if there was any, but he could fit each section of the room to a certain victim. He swallowed hard and closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the cool wall.

His chest ached, and his throat felt raw and he thought that maybe a concussion would be better than the aftereffects of drugs after all.

Hotch had just opened his eyes again when he heard a bolt sliding back. His gaze was drawn to his right, to the wall between him and the bed, and the door that was just visible in the half light. There wasn’t a door frame, but there was a handle, and beneath that there was a lock. Another bolt slid, and the handle spun, then the door swung open.

-

Four hours after Hotch disappeared, they had started looking into Milton’s history. The Sheriff has assigned two of his deputies to look into Hotch’s disappearance, promising Rossi he would keep the team informed.

It didn’t make Hotch’s absence any easier to bear, but at least they knew if they were wrong, if there was another unsub, there were people looking into it. There was a part of Rossi that badly wanted to put in a call to Strauss, have another team sent out to cover that possibility, but he knew that it was stupid.

And more than that, he knew Hotch wouldn’t like it one bit. Under different circumstances, Rossi might have said ‘screw it’, and lived through whatever lecture Aaron delivered once they’d rescued him, but his instincts were telling him to leave it.

To their eyes, Hotch might not fit the unsub’s victim type, but they could be missing something. They could even be wrong about part of the unsub’s motivation, the kids could be a coincidence, something the unsub had factored in to trick them.

The guy was smart, getting away with four murders all so well planned, proved that much.

Rossi jumped a little as the laptop next to him beeped, Garcia appearing on screen, looking a little more frazzled than Rossi could remember her looking for a long time. He didn’t need to guess why.

It wasn’t just that Hotch was missing and she was worried. They had said that they were treating Hotch as a victim, and had meant Garcia had looked into Hotch’s history as well as Milton’s.

The team all knew Hotch was a private man, sometimes he shared bits of his past with them, but not often. Rossi thought that even Prentiss talked about her family more than Hotch did his.

“Hey kiddo, how you doing?” The others looked up when Rossi spoke, then drifted over when they spotted Garcia on the laptop screen.

“Wishing that I could time travel, but as I obviously can’t, I have been looking at Milton, and Hotch’s, public records. There’s nothing there to suggest why the unsub chose them. Not that it matters with Milton, because you guys have already figured out why, but I checked anyway.” Garcia took a deep breath once she’d finished. Rossi could fill in the blanks; they hadn’t found anything in the public records for the other victims either, so much hadn’t been officially reported when it should have been.

Rossi found himself wondering about the kinds of skeletons that could possibly be hiding in Aaron’s past that might have drawn the attention of the unsub.

“You didn’t find anything in the records for the other victims either.” Morgan’s voice is harsh, and Garcia winces a little. It didn’t need to be said, and Rossi took a moment to be angry with Morgan, then he just mourned the loss of their normal banter.

“I can tell you that Milton has lived in the area for his whole life, that he’s married, but doesn’t have any children, and he hasn’t got a criminal record.” All things that Rossi and Prentiss had already learned from the man’s brother, though it was good to have official confirmation. Garcia hesitated for a moment before she moved on to Hotch. Rossi could see the tension in her body. “Hotch and his parents lived in the area until a year after Sean was born, when they moved. I can’t find a criminal record, not even an expunged one.”

There was a sharpness to the last words, something that Rossi hadn’t expected from Garcia, and he spots Morgan tensing. Under different circumstances, he would have jumped at the chance to poke Morgan, but like so many other things, he leaves it alone. No matter what people might think, David Rossi does know when to leave well enough alone.

“Thank you Garcia.” JJ said, offering Garcia a faint smile, and gaining one in reply. It was a mere shadow of Garcia’s normal smile, but it was a smile.

“I’ll keep digging and let you know if I find anything else.” Garcia said, eyes bright with determination. She wanted to find Hotch as badly as the rest of them, and she was more than willing to do whatever it took, Rossi could tell. It was a reminder of why he admired her so much.

“Garcia,” Rossi stopped her before she could sign off; there was something else they needed first, “you need to spread your net a little wider. Look at family well.” Rossi hesitated, trying to remember if any of Hotch’s family lived in the area still, but coming up empty; he knew more about Haley’s family than Hotch’s. “And I need you to send us information for any family Hotch has in the area.”

Garcia’s eyes widened, and she stared at him for a moment before she nodded, “Of course, I’ll get that to you right away.” The screen went blank, just as she turned away from the screen, fingers already moving, typing faster than Rossi ever could himself.

-

Hotch had no idea how much time had passed since he’d woken up; he didn’t even know how long had passed since he’d stepped out of his SUV. It had been just after lunch then, he remembered because he’d eaten an apple while sitting in the car at the morgue.

He had been planning to eat something more substantial once he’d made it back to the others, provided he had the time. In hindsight, he thought, maybe it hadn’t been a very good plan.

The door had opened, a few minutes before, for the third time since Hotch had woken, but the unsub hadn’t entered, just dropped a body onto the floor, just inside the room, then left.

The woman, Hotch guessed from the dress he’d caught a glimpse of, was alive, though she wasn’t moving. Hotch fell over once as he crossed the room to kneel at the woman’s side, wincing as his knee popped. Yet another reminder that he wasn’t as young as he had been, and of the battering his body had taken over the years. He felt for a pulse automatically and it was a relief to feel the steady throb beneath his fingertip.

The woman stirred under his touch, dark eyes opening and widening. He backed away carefully, knowing the last thing she needed was for him to be in her personal space. There was blood on her temple, and that said more to Hotch than anything else.

He had been drugged, but she had been hit. Normally, it would have been the other way around. It was easier to knock a man out with a blow than it was to drug them, there was less risk. A woman’s struggles would be weaker, so drugging them would take less energy.

It couldn’t just be a control thing, it had to have something to do with whatever the unsub had planned for them. Hotch didn’t want to think about what that might be.

He could guess though.

She shifted carefully, rolling onto her side, never turning her back on Hotch, then used her arms to push herself into a sitting position. There was a long pause before she cleared her throat, “Who are you?”

Hotch attempted what he hoped was a reassuring smile, though he doubted she could see. She was squinting, and the bulb was, if anything, giving out even less light than it had been when Hotch had first woken. “Aaron Hotchner.” Honestly, he thought, was the best thing, make sure she knew they were in the same situation; let her know that he at least wasn’t a threat.

She frowned, her hand drifting to touch her forehead, causing her to sway a little at the loss of support. She winced as her fingers made contact with the open wound, pulling her hand back quickly, “Laura. Where are we?

She hadn’t lost her wariness, and Hotch knows that means she hadn’t seen her attacker. They were in the same boat, but she didn’t know it.

Hotch shook his head in answer to her question, “I don’t know, I think we’re in a basement.”

She was still squinting, her expression pained, “How long have you been here?” She was testing him. Smart woman.

Hotch shook his head again, he was starting to feel that little bit more helpless. He didn’t have anything to tell her; or at least, nothing that would make her feel any better about their situation. “I’m not sure.”

She made a face and he fought the urge to move closer and offer comfort. She wouldn’t welcome it.

“He drugged me, took me from the police car park.” He did what he could, offered her more information.

She nodded, though Hotch could tell she still wasn’t entirely convinced. She looked away from him, taking in the room. He knew the moment she caught sight of the blood on the bed linen.

She shifted, crying out when a fresh round of pain hit, and Hotch winced. She was breathing heavily as she forced herself upright, looking around the room, taking in each of the separate stains. “Oh God,” she whispered, then covered her mouth with a shaking hand.

-

After a long, mostly sleepless night, Morgan, JJ, and Rossi drove to the house where Hotch had spent his early childhood. It had come as a surprise when Garcia had informed them the house hadn’t been sold when the family relocated; the fact that Hotch’s step-mother was living there was an even bigger one.

Morgan hadn’t even realised that Hotch had a step-mother, it made him think maybe Hotch’s childhood had been even more complicated than he’d thought.

Morgan’s first impression of the house was it was expensive. The driveway was relatively short, leading to a double garage, set off to one side from the house. There were a number of trees, planted in exactly the right places to hide the garage from view when you were on the road.

That was Morgan’s second impression, appearances mattered a lot to whoever lived in the house. He couldn’t help but wonder how much the house had changed since Hotch was a kid; he was hoping a lot.

Morgan let JJ and Rossi lead the way up the path from the driveway, and up the few steps onto the porch. Rossi hit the doorbell, then took a step back, falling into line with the others. They were stood waiting for almost a minute before they heard a key in the lock, and the door opened, revealing an aging blonde in a designer tracksuit.

Rossi held up his badge, “I’m Agent Rossi, these are Agents Jareau and Morgan, we were wondering if we could talk to Mrs. Hotchner?”

The woman blinked, then frowned, “David Rossi?”

Rossi nodded, flashing her his most charming smile, “That would be me.”

She pursed her lips, crossing her arms over her stomach, “I would have thought Aaron would have come himself.”

Morgan’s eyebrows rose as he realised why the woman had seemed familiar; Sean Hotchner looked a lot like his mother. Morgan exchanged a glance with JJ. It wasn’t going to be an easy interview, if they even managed to make it through the door. Morgan wouldn’t be surprised if she turned them away.

“Mrs. Hotchner,” Rossi said, taking her use of Hotch’s first name the same way Morgan had, “we’re actually here to talk to you about your stepson.”

Mrs. Hotchner shifted her weight glancing at each of them in turn before she nodded, stepping to one side and motioning for them to enter. Morgan hesitated, letting Rossi lead the way into the house; her attitude had changed completely as she’d looked at them. It made Morgan wonder how long she’d been waiting for a visit from the FBI, though he was glad they hadn’t come for the reason she obviously thought. She closed the door behind them, and then led them down the corridor and through a door, leading them through a dining room and into a conservatory. She waited patiently for them to sit on the couch before she sat herself, perching just on the edge of a lounge chair. “What is it that’s happened?”

JJ edged forward, closing the distance between herself and Mrs. Hotchner as much as she could while staying seated, “I’m afraid your stepson is missing.”

“He’s not dead?”

None of them said anything for a moment, then Morgan forced himself to speak, keeping his voice even, “No ma’am, he’s not.”

She took a deep breath, then waved her hand, “Call me Lianne please, and none of this ‘your stepson’ nonsense. Aaron or Hotch is fine, I’ll know who you’re talking about.”

“Lianne,” Rossi said, “we’re working a case with an unsub who seems to be using his victim’s secrets against them, and we think he may have taken Aaron.”

Lianne pursed her lips, “You came to me to ask if there are any secrets of Aaron’s this ‘unsub’ could use against him?”

Rossi nodded, and Lianne laughed. Morgan felt a little sick, and he saw JJ pale out of the corner of his eye. He doubted that Lianne was being malicious, she didn’t know what they did, but it wasn’t an altogether kind reaction to have to Rossi’s question.

Lianne seemed to sense the tension, stilling, and offering them a smile, “He’s mentioned all of you, on the occasions we speak. I’d have thought, considering how long you’ve been acquainted, that you would know that Aaron doesn’t share much.” Lianne shook her head, expression turning a little more solemn, “I suppose he hasn’t told you all that much, about his childhood?”

“In all honesty, I didn’t even realise you were his stepmother.” Rossi admitted, and Morgan hated it. He knew why Rossi was going with honesty, but Morgan hated that they had to do this. When they got Hotch back, and it was very much a when in Morgan’s mind, not an if, there was going to be some fallout, on both sides, from the questions they were having to ask.

Lianne looked surprised, “You’ve met Sean?”

They all nodded, and Morgan wondered when Sean and Rossi had met.

“You didn’t wonder why he’s blonde and blue eyed, and Aaron’s dark?” Lianne asked.

“It happens.” Morgan answered, without pause, and Lianne smiled.

“Edward, the boys’ father, he was almost as pale as me, Aaron’s colouring is almost entirely inherited from his mother.” Lianne paused, “As far as secrets, I’m afraid I don’t know of any that Aaron might have that could be used against him. We do talk, but not about anything like that.”

“It’s likely to be something you would overlook, something you suspect he might have been involved in.” Morgan prompted, and Lianne shook her head.

“I’m really not going to be much help there I’m afraid.”

“Ok, how about you talk us through anything that happened while you were living here, before you moved.” Rossi pressed, and Lianne hesitated, before she nodded to herself.

“How much do you know, about Aaron’s career before the BAU?” Lianne asked, hands clasped together on her lap. It was almost a nervous gesture, and it made Morgan wonder what it was that was making her uncomfortable.

“He was in FBI SWAT, and before that he was a prosecutor.” Morgan answered, while Rossi nodded his agreement.

Lianne sighed, “There was one case, with SWAT, there were a lot of questions about ‘the way it went down’,” Morgan’s eyebrows rose at her choice of words. It looked like they weren’t the first FBI agents to pay her a visit. “I know they cleared all of them, but it took a little while. There were civilian casualties, or so the agents who came to speak to me said. I had no clue what they thought they would gain by talking to me.” She shook her head.

Morgan exchanged another look with JJ. While they hadn’t known that anything like that had happened, it didn’t help them now. The unsub targeted crimes that had never really been investigated, that his victims had never been tied to.

Lianne frowned, “But that’s not the kind of thing you’re looking for?”

“No, I’m afraid it’s not.” Rossi said, and Lianne sighed, shaking her head.

“I met Edward when Aaron was thirteen, and I honestly can’t think of a single thing that happened between then and his leaving for college that might help.” She paused, dropping her gaze to the floor, “The only bad thing that happened was Edward getting ill.”

“You’re certain?” Rossi pressed, and Lianne scowled at him.

“I am. Though, considering you didn’t know Aaron had a step-mother, or that Sean is only his half-brother, I think that there are a few things you should know.”

-

The unsub hadn’t given his victims long to get acquainted, or at least it hadn’t seemed like long to Hotch; it was hard to tell when he didn’t have a watch, or his phone, or even the faintest slant of daylight. Time was meaningless in the basement.

The unsub had pre-planned everything, or that was how it seemed to Hotch. The door to the basement had opened, then the unsub had stepped inside, gun in hand. Neither of them had been willing to risk being shot, Laura stumbling to where the unsub told her to go, while Hotch had stayed still, doing his best not to flinch as the unsub had walked over to him.

The syringe hadn’t been as much of a surprise as the unsub had wanted it to be, Hotch knew, but it had been a long time since Hotch was last surprised by an unsub. There hadn’t been any rope, and the unsub hadn’t made Hotch move to the manacles. There were only so many options left for controlling Hotch, while the unsub had his way with Laura.

Hotch shuddered, staring up at the ceiling. He didn’t have the energy to move, nor the will to turn his head. He didn’t want to see what the unsub was doing to Laura.

It had been hours, Hotch was certain, since the unsub had entered the basement. The gun was on the floor, halfway between Hotch and Laura. If he had had any control over his body, Hotch would have made a move. The drug or combination of drugs, that the unsub had given him had made him sluggish, made it seem as though everything was happening in slow motion.

Laura hadn’t screamed much to being with, she had sworn at the unsub, cursing him in English and Spanish, her anger countering the pain, but eventually, blood loss and exhaustion had started to take its toll. Idly, in the back of his mind, Hotch noted that the unsub was taking less time with Laura than he had his other victims.

Hotch didn’t think Laura would last the day, not if the unsub continued at the pace he was.

Hotch flinched each time Laura moaned. She didn’t scream. Couldn’t scream, not anymore.

“This isn’t good enough.” The unsub stopped, turning away from Laura and walked over to Hotch. Hotch stared up into the other man’s eyes, unable to do anything to defend himself. The unsub scowled, then bent down, grabbing Hotch’s arms and pulling him across the room until he was next to Laura.

The smell was so much worse close up. Hotch hadn’t been expecting it, had thought that enclosed as the basement was, the smell would be a constant. It wasn’t.

He gagged, somehow managing to roll himself onto his side, but there was nothing in his stomach to come up but bile. The unsub rolled Hotch roughly onto his other side, and Hotch was dimly aware of how tacky the concrete was under his cheek.

“Better.”

Hotch shuddered at the sound of the unsub’s voice, while Laura stared blankly at him, the fight gone from her eyes. Hotch didn’t blame her, couldn’t blame her as he stared at her face, which was so pale in the faint light.

If he hadn’t known, hadn’t heard, her screams of agony, he might have been tricked into thinking the unsub hadn’t touched her, but he could see the little stains, here and there, on her skin. The unsub had chosen a more insidious method of torture this time.

Hotch closed his eyes swallowing hard, fighting the urge to throw up. Laura gasped, and Hotch opened his eyes, watching as her body shook for a few moments before stilling again. Her eyes were shut tight, muscles in her face twitching.

Her lower right jaw was oddly misshapen, the skin a pale grey. There was another patch of grey skin on her neck, and more, spaced randomly over her skin. Hotch remembered how much she’d struggled, when the unsub had stripped her of her clothes. The woman lying beside him was a shadow of that one.

The unsub had done that.

Hotch blinked slowly, tired suddenly. The unsub kicked Hotch in the shin, then squatted beside him, reaching out, taking Hotch’s right hand and intertwining it with Laura’s right. She blinked rapidly, confusion touching her for a moment before it passed, exhaustion taking over once more.

Hotch tried to squeeze her hand, but it was hard. He knew, distantly, that was what the unsub wanted, but Hotch wanted to offer her some comfort. Better that she not be alone with her killer when the moment came.

She stirred, mewing softly, when the unsub dripped something onto her stomach, her muscles jumped, her hand suddenly gripping Hotch’s, hard, and he flinched. It wasn’t long before she faded back into exhausted slumber, stirring every once in a while to moan and writhe.

Hotch never once let go of her hand.

-

Hotch stirred, waking from the haze that had settled over him, a feeling of loss almost overwhelming him. Something was wrong; he thought groggily, not quite remembering where he was.

It took him a moment to manage to open his eyes, and then he knew what it was that had woken him so suddenly. Laura’s hand was cold in his, which was smeared with a mix of blood and liquid.

All he thought, in the moment before the unsub moved closer, was that at least she had died with her eyes closed. He doubted it had been a quick, or a painless death, but her eyes had been shut.

Hotch flinched, curling around his arm when the unsub pulled the needle back out, shivering in the cold. Hotch let go of Laura’s hand, trying to move away from the unsub, but finding that his body still didn’t want to cooperate. He just managed the few inches it took to reach the corner.

With Laura dead, Hotch thought, he was alone with the unsub. He shivered again, managing to curl up a little. He had been wearing his suit jacket before, he thought, but it was gone.

He couldn’t remember if he had been wearing it before.

Hotch flinched as the unsub’s shadow fell across him, and the muscles in his legs twitched as he tried to tense them, tried to do something, anything. He pulled himself away, squeezing himself further into the corner.

The unsub leant in close for a moment before he pulled away. Hotch shuddered, listening as the unsub walked across to the door. The key slid into the lock, turned then slid out before the unsub opened the door.

Hotch could see each movement in his head, the door opening, then closing behind the unsub, the multiple locks sliding into place before the unsub climbed up the stairs out into the light.

Hotch couldn’t feel the pinprick in his arm, but when he shifted and glanced at it, there was a little trickle of blood running down his arm. He watched it for a long moment before he rolled onto his back, to stare blankly up at the ceiling.

He was alone in a basement with the dead body of a woman he had known almost nothing about.

-

Innes and Duncan arrived a few minutes after Rossi, JJ and Morgan had returned from their trip. Prentiss watched the flash of irritation cross Rossi’s face, there wasn’t going to be time for them to talk about what they’d learned from Hotch’s step mother.

It’s a relief in a way though, Prentiss thinks, considering how little she and Reid had managed to find while the others had been gone. There still wasn’t anything for them to add to the profile. Their unsub was still a white man, in his thirties to forties, who had lived in the area for most of his life and was most likely married with kids. The list wasn’t a short one.

Prentiss doubted, watching the expressions on the other three’s faces, that they had uncovered anything that might have explained why Hotch had been taken. She hoped the news the deputies were bringing wasn’t going to render that a moot point.

Hotch couldn’t be dead.

“Detective Sumner called us, asked if we could bring you guys along,” the Sheriff had asked that they no travel solo, it made sense, with Hotch gone, “they’ve found another body, looks like our guy.” Innes said, shifting her weight a little. She was feeling the tension, Prentiss could tell.

“Male or female?” Rossi asked the question of the moment, and Duncan shook his head.

“They didn’t say.”

For a moment they stood in silence, then Rossi spoke, “Prentiss, Morgan, go with them.”

Prentiss nodded, looking to Morgan, watching as he forced himself to move, “Let’s get moving.”

Prentiss swallowed hard, forcing the dread to the back of her mind. She wasn’t going to make any assumptions; she would wait and see what was waiting for them.

She wouldn’t think about what would happen if it was Hotch.

-

It felt wrong to Prentiss, to be so relieved when the body at the crime scene turned out to be a woman’s, not a man’s. But then she knew it was only natural. It was like the cases when they had taken people to ID bodies, only for it not to be that person’s child.

It was easy to be relieved when it wasn’t your own loved one lying dead.

This was a bad case, one of the ones likely to give someone nightmares, and she didn’t know what any of them would do, if, _when_ , they found Hotch’s body. She didn’t want to know what punishment, or what death, the unsub would choose for Aaron Hotchner.

Their new victim was Laura Henrickson, or so Sumner had told them when they had arrived at the scene, though how they had made such a quick identification Prentiss wasn’t sure. The body was laid out in much the same way as the other victims had been, face up, arms laid across the stomach, legs straight.

A lot of the locals were avoiding looking at the body, moving around it, but not letting their gaze linger. Prentiss couldn’t really blame them, it wasn’t a nice sight.

“Acid.” Morgan said, his voice soft.

Prentiss nodded, pulling on gloves and leaning down over the body. At first sight it looked like the attacks had been focused on the face, but on a closer look Prentiss could see that the victim had been redressed, and the acid burns extended under the neckline of the shirt. “He redressed her, after.”

Morgan crouched down next to her, looking where she was pointing. His mouth thinned, and he nodded, “We’ll have to wait for the autopsy to see what killed her.”

Prentiss gave a nod of her own. The acid burns were clearly visible, but it was hard to say what had killed the woman. There was blood, and pus, but nothing that gave a specific cause of death. Prentiss wondered then, if maybe the acid could have been enough to kill the woman. It had to have been stressful, and stress could stop a heart just as easily as a bullet.

She stood and stripped off her gloves. The newspaper had already been bagged by the crime scene team, but she had made a note of which paper it was, and the date. Reid would be able to find it, and figure out what it told them about this new victim.

Prentiss wondered what Laura’s sin had been, to entail such a gruesome choice of torture.


	6. Five

By the time the effects of whatever the unsub had been giving him wore off, it seemed like it had been hours since the unsub had taken Laura’s body away. Hotch knew that, with his mind clear once more, he should have been trying to find a way out, but the truth was, he just couldn’t seem to bring himself to care.

Hotch spent a long time lying on the floor, away from the various blood stains that marred sections of the concrete, staring up at the ceiling. The door was locked, there weren’t any windows, and the drain cover wasn’t likely to move anymore then than it had when he’d tried it before.

Before Laura.

He had explored the room more, between waking and gaining company, he knew every inch of it, and he felt useless. Helpless.

He thought he knew what the unsub had planned for him, but he was waiting to see if he was right. He was waiting for another victim, again, only this time he didn’t have the benefit of the distance that there normally was.

This time he got to see just what it was the unsub was doing to his victims. Got to experience it first hand, in the field.

That thought almost stirred an emotion, until his mind wandered back to Foyet. A place that it visited daily. Hotch rolled onto his side, gagging. He hadn’t eaten in a long time, there was nothing to come up but bile, what little of that was left in him.

For the first time in months, Hotch couldn’t fight the emotions that thoughts of Foyet tended to evoke. He didn’t cry, but that was only because he couldn’t. Hotch wondered, for a brief moment, if maybe the unsub was going to starve him, the same way he had Keri Osbourne. It didn’t make sense though, and he knew it.

This unsub didn’t do repeats, and Hotch knew that starvation wasn’t a suitable punishment for any of his sins. He had already been punished for his pride, he knew. There was nothing worse than being forced to watch another victim die. Not when, without the drugs, he could have done something about it.

The gun had been right there. _His_ gun, the one he kept in his ankle holster as backup, had been right there. He could have ended it then.

Hotch lay on his side, waiting. It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of the locks being pulled back. He had a visitor.

-

Laura Henrickson, by all accounts, had been a lovely woman. Rossi couldn’t help but wonder if he would ever walk into an interview room and not have a family member tell him that about a dead loved one. It continued to amaze him how death could erase all sins.

You could hate your sister when she was alive, but once she was dead, you would love her more than you ever did. Greif was a funny thing.

Prentiss appeared from the other interview room, looking more haggard than she had before. She met his gaze and shook her head, raising a hand to rub her forehead. None of them, Rossi thought bitterly, were getting any sleep, and it wasn’t helping them any.

Rossi considered sending them back to the hotel in shifts. Better to be rested than to keep going until they ran themselves into the ground. The problem was, he could send them to the hotel, but he couldn’t make them sleep. You could lead a horse to water, but you couldn’t make it drink, as his second wife would have said. She had been rather fond of horses. He hoped that Kevin, Garcia’s boyfriend, was doing his duty and making sure the technical analyst was at least taking breaks.

“Anything?” Rossi asked, though he could tell what her answer would be.

“Nothing, she was the perfect employee.” Prentiss shook her head, “It’s like what Morgan said about Monroe, they _know_ that something was happening, they just don’t want to admit it.”

The newspaper that had been left with Laura’s body had been more forthcoming then the others. There had been an article, one of a long line from what Reid had found, detailing various incidents in one of the local community centres, all involving chemical burns. According to the paper, no one had been able to explain the incidents, but it hadn’t taken Garcia more than five minutes to give them an answer on that.

Laura Henrickson, who worked as an agency cleaner, had worked at various places, including the community centre, where dangerous chemicals had been left out, or used in excess. She hadn’t worked at any of the sites consistently, and on a few occasions she had been the cover for someone else.

The list of people, adults and children, who had been affected was a long one; long enough to make even Rossi feel a little sick. How could someone be so consistently careless and continue to go unchecked?

Rossi shook his head, “Her brother didn’t have anything to offer either, I even mentioned the accidents, he said it couldn’t have been Laura.” Rossi paused, watching Prentiss carefully before he continued, “He said that she wouldn’t have been careless because she has children of her own. She would never do anything to risk anyone else’s.”

Prentiss winced, then sighed, rubbing her eyes, “She worked a lot of nightshifts, and I doubt she had any intention of causing harm.” The first three victims had more or less intended the harm they had caused, had made conscious choices. The most recent two, neither of them had intended harm.

In a way, that made it that much worse.

-

The drugs had been in his food; that was the thought at the forefront of Hotch’s mind.

The unsub had left the food, a plastic bowl of broth, close to the door, his appearance only brief. Hotch hadn’t been able to resist the smell, his mouth starting to water, as much as it could, and he’d managed to drag himself over to the bowl. He had taken a moment, waiting for the dizziness to pass before he’d sipped the broth from the bowl slowly.

The unsub hadn’t provided him with any cutlery.

It had been a struggle, after the first mouthful, to force himself to take time. If he had rushed, he would have just thrown it all up again. Slow and steady was best, even as his stomach had rumbled.

Hotch had hated it, knowing that being fed was likely another part of the torture. He could have left the food, refused it, maybe the unsub wouldn’t have reacted well, but Hotch would have been in control; for a short time.

Hotch sighed, closing his eyes. The bowl was long since empty, and the basement hadn’t changed, blurred as it was now that the drugs were taking effect. Hotch tried to compare the feeling to before, to judge whether it was the same combination, but he couldn’t focus.

It was hard to compare when he couldn’t even think.

Hotch blinked sluggishly, registering the sound of the locks, after the door had already opened. The unsub carried another woman, slung over his shoulders. Hotch managed to roll onto his side, watching the unsub lower the woman to the ground. It was hard to tell if she was alive, but Hotch knew that the unsub wouldn’t have brought a dead victim.

The unsub had placed her carefully, away from the blood stains and the soiled bed, smoothing her hair out of her face before he stood. The man’s steps were carefully measured as he crossed to stand over Hotch, meeting his gaze. They stared at one another for a long moment before the unsub kicked Hotch in the knee. The man smiled when Hotch didn’t react, then turned, picked up the bowl and left. The sound of the bolts sliding home seemed to echo.

Hotch frowned, looking down at his knee. The unsub’s boot had left a muddy smear, covering over one of the blood stains. He was sure, if absently so, that it should have hurt, but it didn’t. There wasn’t even a dull throb.

Hotch wondered if maybe the unsub had read their files, all of them; had somehow found out about Reid. Maybe the drug was dilaudid, but then, Hotch didn’t think it could be. How could the unsub know about something that wasn’t in any report, or at least, it wasn’t in any of the reports people could access.

Hotch shook his head, then groaned, swallowing hard. The dizziness had returned with a vengeance, but he refused to throw up what little food he’d eaten.

He could control that much at least.

He hoped.

-

“Looks like your timeline isn’t valid anymore.” Yates commented dryly, from his position to Rossi’s right, his arms crossed over his stomach, the heel of his right foot resting on is left knee.

Out of the corner of her eye, JJ saw Sumner cringe, shifting a little in his chair. She wondered if he was wincing because of the tone of Yates’ voice, or because he knew that they didn’t need the reminder. Hotch, if he truly was a victim of their unsub, and the Sheriff’s department had yet to prove otherwise, had been the second victim to break the pattern.

“It is and it isn’t.” Rossi answered, sounding calmer than JJ thought any of them could.

Yates’ eyebrows shot up, and he cocked his head to one side. He wasn’t accepting that.

“It’s another escalation,” Reid took up the point, in full lecture mode, “before we saw an escalation in the violence he was using to kill his victims, accompanied by an escalation in a sense in relation to the number of people the victims’ crimes had affected. It would have been more unusual if the unsub _hadn’t_ started to kill more often.”

Innes frowned, her hand stilling, she had been taking notes as Reid spoke, “How do you mean?”

“With the type of unsub we seem to be dealing with, they are working their way up to something. They can’t just do what it is they need to, and the reasons for that vary, so they work up to it. In essence, by killing all of these other people, they are building up their confidence for their final act, whatever that is.” JJ had watched his hands as he spoke, following each gesture, she had heard the lecture before, more times than she wanted to think about.

Normally she would have been watching the person he was lecturing, but she can’t seem to quite find the motivation to. Her mind is too busy coming up with scenarios, how they might find Hotch, what might be happening to him. So much of it doesn’t quite make sense.

Not with what they know about this unsub.

“Laura Henrickson was taken after your boss.” Yates said, making it sound like an idle question. Sumner flinched again, his shoulders tensing. “Why didn’t we find his body first?”

JJ bit her lip. The way he said it, it was like they _had_ found Hotch’s body. Like he was already dead. She looked over at Prentiss, who was gritting her teeth, her eyes narrowed as she stared across the table at Yates. Nothing the man did made any of them warm to him.

“We haven’t found Agent Hotchner’s body yet.” Sumner said, not seeming to realise that his words were no better than Yates’. They both kept talking about Hotch’s body, not Hotch. JJ shuddered, she knew, in the years’ she’d been with the BAU they’d been lucky. They might have attracted the attention of a lot of their unsubs, but few of them had died, and she hadn’t been with the team long enough at the time to have known the agents who had died in Boston all that well.

“That’s not a question we have a solid answer to.” Morgan is the one to reply, his temper carefully under control.

Yates snorted, and Morgan clenched his hands into fists on his lap. JJ knew she was the only one who could see them.

“It’s still possible that Agent Hotchner was taken by someone else,” Rossi said, “and we still don’t know why our unsub would have taken him in the first place.”

The deputies exchanged a look, and Yates’ looked doubtful. Sumner just shifted his weight again. JJ got the impression that he wasn’t used to the kind of tension that was present in the room. She doubted many people would have been.

Duncan shifted in his chair, clearing his throat before he spoke, “Look, I don’t want you folks to take this the wrong way, but maybe you just don’t want to recognise there might be a reason. None of the victims’ family and friends have.”

JJ heard the unspoken ‘what makes you think you are so different from them?’. He was right, in a way, but it wasn’t that they hadn’t looked. It wasn’t that they couldn’t list things that Hotch had done over the years that might have attracted the unsub’s attention, it was just that none of it fitted in with the other victims.

“Hotch isn’t perfect.” Prentiss said, and there was an edge to her voice. They might all try not to profile each other, but JJ knew that it wasn’t something that you could always just turn off. Once you started looking at people that way, you couldn’t really stop. “He has done things that people might not understand; might not like. But there’s nothing that matches the other victims.”

“That you know of.” Sumner said.

“You can go question people if you want.” Rossi said, “See if you can find anything we missed. Trust me when I say we want to know why Agent Hotchner was taken. Knowing why, it would help with the profile.”

Sumner frowned, “You talked to his stepmother?”

Rossi nodded, “She couldn’t think of anything.” It wasn’t entirely true, but JJ knew what Rossi was thinking. What Lianne had told them might not be entirely relevant, and it wasn’t something that the others should hear in front of the locals. It was something that they deserved to hear when they could react to it freely.

“He grew up around here?” Duncan asked.

JJ nodded, “Until they moved away when he was a teenager.”

Sumner’s frown deepened, “He’s not been back since?”

“He has, but only to visit family during the holidays.” JJ said, that was a point that Lianne had made clear.

Sumner scratched his eyebrow, and glanced at Innes and Duncan, “It’s worth a quick review, see if there’s any unsolved from those times.” He didn’t sound convinced, and it was a line of enquiry that Rossi had already had Garcia look into. JJ guessed that it was possible, if there were cases that hadn’t been digitized, that Garcia had missed.

Though she doubted it.

There was a pause, then Sumner and the deputies all stood, they still had a few witnesses to chase up who had claimed to have seen Henrickson just before she’d gone missing. They still didn’t have a complete profile to use, but they had the basic one they’d been given, before Hotch had gone missing.

It seemed a long time ago.

Yates muttered something about wild goose chases as he stood to follow them, along with a comment about pushy feds who thought they could do no wrong. JJ wondered how he had managed to keep his job. Yates was a man who seemed to enjoy pushing people’s buttons.

“Is it bad that I hope they find something we missed?” Prentiss asked softly, as the door closed behind Yates. None of them answered her.

Morgan’s hands were still clenched into fists, and JJ could see the tension in his jaw. Rossi was rubbing his jaw wearily, and Reid was staring at the map as though it might provide all the answers they needed.

They all wanted to know why; to have a reason for Hotch not being with them. JJ just hoped that they could find out why before the unsub was finished with Hotch.

-

The unsub hadn’t been gone long when the woman stirred. Hotch watched as she dragged herself upright. There was blood smeared down the right side of her face, the unsub had subdued her the same way as he had Laura.

There was a long moment before she noticed Hotch, and she just stared at him for a long moment, blue eyes wide. He wondered what she saw as she stared at him, he doubted it was anything good.

“Who are you?” She demanded, and Hotch was reminded of Laura. He wondered what this woman’s crime had been. She was well dressed, her hair styled and her attitude reminded him of a lot of the women he’d known as a child.

“Supervisory Special Agent Aaron Hotchner.” Hotch said, though the words came out slightly slurred, and his mouth was dry.

He just about made out her frown in the dim light, “As in FBI?”

“Yes.” He would have nodded, but he knew from experience that it would just make his nausea worse.

“Here investigating…” She trailed off, her eyes widening. Hotch shuddered, goose bumps raising on his arms. It still wasn’t especially cold in the basement, though he wasn’t quite sure why.

She swallowed hard a few times, losing some of her bravo, “Is it him?”

“Yes.” Hotch answered, though normally he would have held his tongue. He wasn’t sure if it was better or worse to know what might be coming. In his experience, there was little difference between the two. You were always imaging the worst, either way.

She pushed herself upright, using the wall as support, and stumbled to the door. Hotch blinked, then pushed himself upright, resting his forehead against the wall. He watched as she pulled the door knob, almost stumbling as her hands slipped.

She was only just holding back her panic.

By the time she gave up on the door, she was panting, fresh blood dripping onto the floor from the head wound, and Hotch was feeling a little woozy. He hated the drugs.

“Sophie Lawson.” She said, her forehead resting against the door, “It’s only fair you know my name.”

Hotch nodded, then grimaced. He didn’t know why he kept forgetting about the nausea.

“I couldn’t find a way out, and no one seemed to hear me.” He hadn’t tried screaming, or yelling, but Laura had, but Hotch didn’t want to say that to Sophie. She didn’t need him to be that blunt.

She swallowed again, nodding, then she moved away from the door, moving slowly to Hotch’s side and sliding down the wall to sit next to him. “Why me?”

Hotch shook his head. He didn’t know her, couldn’t give her an answer, yet; he thought that once the unsub started to torture her, he might be able to make a guess. Sophie didn’t need to hear that though.

Tears ran down her face, and she covered her mouth with a shaking hand. Hotch reached out, taking her free hand and squeezing gently, aware of his own cheeks growing damp.

-

An hour after the locals had all left Reid finally admitted defeat. There were enough data points to work up a geographic profile, but there wasn’t any pattern, there didn’t seem to be any specific areas that the unsub was avoiding. It made sense, Reid knew, considering the way the unsub was choosing victims.

Reid eyed his map, there were patches of various colours all over it, it was just a mess of colour. It did happen sometimes, there was a reason that they only tended to use geographic profiles in conjunction with their main profile.

He sighed, toying with his pen and looking up across the table at JJ, who was just lowering her phone to the table. She was still fighting off the media, feeding them little tidbits. There was nothing for them to say, or at least, there was nothing helpful for them to say.

JJ had been the one to phone Jessica, Hotch’s sister in law, to tell her what had happened. She had needed to know; normally, when he was away on a case, Hotch would call his son during the evening, if there was time. Hotch wouldn’t be doing that for a while.

Reid frowned, dropping his marker onto the table, that was the thing that had been bothering him, before he’d forced himself to focus on the map. Rossi hadn’t said what they’d learned from Hotch’s stepmother. “JJ?”

JJ looked up at him, eyebrows raised, “Spence?”

“What did Hotch’s stepmother tell you?” Reid saw Emily still out of the corner of his eye, lowering the file she had been reading through to the table and looking up at JJ.

Rossi and Morgan crossed the room, claiming he chairs on either side of JJ, and Reid started to worry. It had to be bad if they thought that they needed to hear it as a group. JJ hadn’t even needed to call them over.

“Garcia should hear this as well.” Rossi said, and Morgan nodded, pulling out his phone and hitting the speed dial. Garcia picked up on the second ring.

“Tell me you have good news.” Garcia said, and Reid winced. He wished that they could tell her that, it would make the whole case so much easier, if they weren’t worrying about Hotch all the time.

It reminded Reid too much of when Hotch had been stabbed, when Emily had told him what had happened, but had asked him to keep working the other case they were working. All that Reid could hope was that this time, there was a better outcome. One that didn’t involve himself getting shot, or Hotch almost dying and having to send his family away.

“I’m afraid not baby girl.” Morgan said, and Garcia sighed.

“A girl can hope.” Garcia said, “What can I do to help you guys bring bossman home safe?”

Rossi and Morgan exchanged a look, and Rossi rubbed his temple as he spoke, looking worn, “Garcia, there are a few things Hotch’s stepmother told us that we were wondering if you could take a look at.”

There was a pause, then Garcia spoke, “Ok, sure, I can do that.” She didn’t sound so sure, but Reid knew that she would do whatever she could, though she would dread the results. There was another pause, before she asked the question that Reid had wanted to ask. “How bad is it?”

“It’s,” Morgan paused, then sighed shaking his head, “not great.”

“Oh.” Garcia went silent, and Reid wished that they’d used one of the laptops. He wanted badly to see her face, and the little glimpses of her colourful office.

“What did Hotch do?” Emily asked the question that Reid hadn’t been able to bring himself to ask. Judging from the way the other three were acting, it was bad, and that didn’t make sense.

Reid couldn’t imagine Hotch doing something that would cause that kind of reaction.

“It’s not something Hotch did, exactly.” Rossi answered, “Garcia, can you look for records on Hotch’s mother? Carolina Hotchner.”

Emily’s eyebrows rose and JJ managed a faint smile, “According to Lianne, Hotch’s stepmother, his maternal grandparents decided on a theme when naming their kids.”

Whatever Garcia has found, it startled a giggle out of her, “Oh yeah, they named all of them after US states.”

“That’s, different.” Emily said, and Reid shook his head.

“There are stranger choices.” Reid could still remember the conversation he had with his mother, when he’d asked why she’d chosen ‘Spencer’. She had had quite an interesting list, and Reid had to admit, he was grateful to his father that he hadn’t let her use any of the stranger ones.

Rossi managed a faint smile, but Morgan still looked grim. Reid was pretty sure he knew what was coming next.

Garcia gasped softly, and Reid could imagine her covering her mouth, staring at her screen. He wondered how bad it was. “She was murdered, in their house.”

Reid flinched, his eyes widening. He looked up at Emily, who had paled. Haley, Hotch’s wife who had been Foyet’s last victim, had died in their home, and it had been bad enough then, when they hadn’t known. Reid could remember how broken Hotch had looked, watching JJ carry his son out, then when he’d sat on his bedroom floor, cradling Haley’s body, sobbing.

In all the years they had worked together, Reid had never seen Hotch as broken as he had been that day. Hotch had always been the stoic one, who didn’t show his emotions all that much.

Suddenly, impossibly, Haley’s death seemed even more horrific.

But, and Reid couldn’t escape it, he didn’t understand why it was relevant to the case. Didn’t understand how that information could help them find Hotch. “Why is this relevant? Hotch didn’t kill her…” If Carolina Hotchner had been murdered, there was no way, Reid thought, that Hotch had killed his own mother.

Rossi sighed, shaking his head, rubbing his temple. “It’s more complicated than that.”

-

The unsub was carrying Hotch’s service weapon when he came for Sophie. As with Laura, the unsub hadn’t given them long to talk, just long enough for Hotch to learn her name, and for her to figure out that the only way out of the room was the door.

The door that was locked from the outside.

The only chance they had was when the unsub was in the room, but Hotch doubted that either of them would be in a fit state to make the attempt. The drugs in Hotch’s system would see to that, while the unsub personally made sure that Sophie couldn’t escape.

The unsub cuffed her to one of the bedposts, leaving her laid out on the floor, then dragged Hotch over. Hotch struggled, as much as he could, when he saw the syringe, but it wasn’t enough. Hotch growled as the unsub depressed the plunger, frustrated, hating the loss of control that the drugs brought.

Satisfied that Hotch wouldn’t be an issue, the unsub positioned him so that he was within a few metres of Sophie, facing her, then threw the gun onto the bed. The unsub grinned at Hotch, smug in the belief that Hotch was in no fit state to make a move for it, and Hotch knew, that unless something changed, he was right.

It made Hotch hate the man all that much more.

Sophie struggled, having seen the syringe in the unsub’s hand, her eyes wide. “Don’t you dare come near me with that.”

The unsub laughed, than hit her hard across the face, unconcerned by her attempts to kick out at him. The unsub knelt by her head, on the other side of her from Hotch, watching as she spat blood.

Sophie coughed a few times, then managed to spit blood in the unsub’s face. He didn’t react.

“If you think I’m going without a fight, you’re wrong, you sick bastard.” Sophie said, shaking with rage, even as blood ran down the side of her face from her split lip.

“Do you know why she’s here Agent Hotchner?” The unsub turned his attention to Hotch, eyebrows raised, ignoring Sophie as she struggled, her right foot coming close to making contact with the unsub’s shin.

Hotch didn’t answer. He could feel the latest dose of the drugs kicking in, his vision blurring, just a little, his brain taking just that second longer to process what was happening around him. Fear crept up on him, making his breath catch in his throat.

The unsub smiled, pulling a bundle from inside his coat, and unrolling it on the floor. Hotch recognised the glint of metal before Sophie caught sight of the unsub’s collection. She froze, not breathing for a moment before she renewed her struggles.

The cuffs cut into her wrists, blood coating her hands. Hotch grimaced, curling in on himself a little, but unable to move enough to turn away.

“Secrets,” The unsub said, as though he was a professor teaching a class, “are never good things. Everywhere has its secrets. Some are more damaging than others.”

The unsub selected a knife, one with a serrated blade, and held it up, testing the edge with his thumb before he seemed satisfied. “They aren’t all secrets, not really. Most of them are just things that people don’t talk about.”

Sophie sobbed, tears running down the side of her face, her wrists were open wounds, the cuffs too tight to allow her to slip her hands through them at the angle the unsub had placed them. Everything was so carefully planned, down to the last detail.

Hotch tried to focus on that, but the fear had too tight a grip on him. All he could do was watch as the unsub shifted closer to Sophie, pressing the blade against her cheek, then running it down, making a shallow cut down to the corner of her mouth.

She froze in place, her breath coming in little gasps.

“Do you want to know what I’m punishing Sophie for Agent Hotchner?”

Hotch swallowed hard, shaking, but didn’t answer.

The unsub sighed, shaking his head. “I’ll give you a clue.” The unsub repositioned himself, straddling Sophie’s torso and forced her mouth open with one hand, pulling what looked like a clamp out of his coat with the other. Sophie screamed as the unsub used the clamp to stop her from closing her mouth.

Hotch coughed, almost gagging, he knew what was coming next, and he didn’t want to see it.

The unsub pulled a grip from his roll, then slipped it into Sophie’s mouth, closing it around her tongue.

Hotch did the only thing he could, he closed his eyes. He shuddered as Sophie screamed, agonised, trying to block out the sounds he could hear.

There was a moment of silence, before the unsub struck Hotch hard across the face, and Hotch opened his eyes, startled. He hadn’t heard the man’s footsteps.

The unsub smiled, showing Hotch his prize before he threw it across the room. Hotch gagged, throwing up the remains of the broth as the unsub turned back to Sophie. She whimpered, coughing, more blood bubbling from between her lips, but she didn’t struggle.

“She won’t be causing any more harm now.”

Hotch coughed, wincing, and curling into a tighter ball. He didn’t say a word.

The unsub selected another blade, and used it to strip Sophie of her blood stained top, leaving it in a sorry heap of linen next to her. There was a pause, then the unsub shook his head.

“There’s no point drawing this out.” He leant in forcing Sophie to meet his gaze, “It’ll be over soon for you, just as it was for them. A quick death.”

The unsub pulled a longer sharper blade from the roll, then he guided Sophie to sit up against the bed. Hotch frowned, his mind taking a moment to realise what the unsub was about to do. Hotch gasped, flailing, fighting to drag himself to her.

Not again, he wasn’t going to lie powerless and watch the unsub kill another person.

The unsub ignored Hotch’s struggles, raising the knife and slashing it across Sophie’s exposed throat.

She flailed, sliding back to the floor, hands covered her throat as the unsub placed his tools back into the roll and stood, taking a few steps away from them.

Hotch forced himself to move, somehow managing to drag himself across to her, grabbing the ruined shirt and pushing her hands away. It had taken Laura hours to die, Hotch hadn’t expected the unsub to kill Sophie so soon, had thought the man would have wanted to draw it out.

But that didn’t work, not with the profile. It had ever been about the suffering, never been about getting off on it. It was about the vengeance. The eye for the eye.

Hotch panted, pressing the fabric desperately against the open wound in Sophie’s neck. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and she struggled against him, but he pressed harder. It didn’t take long before the fabric was soaked through, more in the way than helping, so he threw it away, and pressed his hands against the wound. He couldn’t feel the blood as it coated his hands, but it didn’t matter. All that mattered what that if he could keep pressure on the wound, then she wouldn’t die.

Hotch didn’t care why the unsub picked her, all he knew was that he couldn’t watch another person die. He needed her to live, and he kept telling her that, as she struggled against him. She stared up at him, eyes huge and dark, she was terrified, and she didn’t want to die. He was breathing hard, tears running down his cheeks, his body shaking.

He didn’t want to die.

He was gasping for breath. It was all too much; all of the emotions; his strength being eaten away by the drugs. He sobbed, his hands sliding in the blood, so much blood.

He knew, he _remembered_ his first aid training. You could survive your throat being cut, provided you put pressure on the wound and it wasn’t too deep. There was a point of no return.

Hotch screamed, unable to help himself. There was too much blood, and he couldn’t press down hard enough and the terror is fading. The other emotions aren’t.

He struggled back from her, desperate now. If he couldn’t save her, he needed to get away, but the unsub grabbed him then, cuffing him to the bed posts beside her.

Hotch didn’t have the strength left to fight, no matter how badly he wanted to; the drugs, lack of food and the overwhelming mix of emotions had seen to that. He panted, trying to edge as far away from Sophie as he could get, even as she twitched, flailing with one hand and finding his arm.

Hotch gasped, his vision blurring. He didn’t want this, didn’t want to be there, wanted to be anywhere but where he was. He could remember, all too well, the first time he had felt someone die.

The first time he had felt death.

Somehow, he managed to shake off Sophie’s hand, even as his body shook, barely under his control. Hotch could sense that the end was near, her terror was fading, vanishing in a way it never should, being replaced by that other, by the feeling Hotch had never had quite found a word for.

Hotch struggled weakly against the cuffs, only vaguely aware of the unsub, his attention so fixed on Sophie and what he knew was coming; what was just moments away. It was quick, so quick, but it didn’t matter, it never mattered.

Sophie gasped, wetly, one last time, then stilled. Hotch’s eyes glazed over a moment, then he blinked, his whole body shaking. He was cold; so cold.

Hotch sagged to the floor, exhausted, everything fading away as the unsub left, slamming the door behind him.

All that was left was the echo of death.


	7. Six

Rossi sighed, running a hand through his hair; he could remember exactly what Lianne had told them, but he wasn’t sure how much of it was true. She had admitted herself that neither Edward, nor Hotch, had ever really talked about it. Lianne knew the version of events that had leaked through to her via neighbourhood gossip, and what little mention there was of it in the papers.

“Garcia, what records can you find about Carolina Hotchner’s murder?” Rossi asked, fixing his gaze on the phone where it lay on the table. There was a pause, the muffled sound of Garcia typing on the other end of the phone line the only noise.

“There’s a partial police report, it says that, oh,” Garcia was silent before a moment before she cleared her throat, clearly forcing herself to continue, “it says that Carolina Hotchner and her son were at home alone, her husband was at work, when someone entered the house. The neighbour found Carolina’s body in the kitchen.”

“Hotch?” Prentiss asked, and Rossi looked up at her, noting the stiff way she was holding herself.

“They found him in the dining room, under the table.” Garcia said, her voice soft, and Rossi knew she was crying.

“That matches what Lianne told us,” Morgan said, his expression pained, “she said that the police thought Hotch must have seen what happened.”

“Thought?” Prentiss asked, sticking to one word questions. Reid was sitting silently, taking in every word that was being said, though Rossi could see that the kid’s knuckles were turning white.

Morgan nodded, “They questioned him, but he never told them anything.”

“Did they catch the guy?” Prentiss asked, and JJ, her chin cupped in her hands, elbows resting on the table, nodded.

“Eventually.”

“How many more women did he kill?” Reid asked, his voice even. Rossi admired the kid’s control, always did in these situations. It was something that Rossi himself had never quite mastered, though he had always preferred the ‘don’t get mad, get even’ approach.

“Three, and he had killed two others before he killed Carolina.” Rossi answered, avoiding the words ‘Hotch’s mother’. It was easier to just talk about her like he would any other victim, try not to remind himself too often that it was more personal than that.

“Hotch,” Garcia’s voice broke, “do you think that might be why the unsub took him? Because they think he saw what happened?”

“It’s possible.” Rossi answered.

“But why?” Prentiss asked, “It happened years ago, Hotch was just a kid. Even if he saw the man who killed his mom, that’s a lot of trauma, his mind probably blocked it out. He wouldn’t have remembered, couldn’t have, even if he wanted to.”

Morgan sighed, shaking his head, looking impossibly weary, “The killer, he was Hotch’s teacher.”

Prentiss paled again, and Garcia gasped on the other end of the phone, then started typing. Rossi smiled, somewhat grimly, as he listened. If there was one thing he had learned about Penelope Garcia over the years, it was that she took any injury to her team very personally, and she was not a woman you wanted to cross.

“So the police thought he was covering? Or afraid of what would happen?” Prentiss asked, and Rossi shook his head.

“It’s hard to say, we’re working off what Lianne told us.” JJ answered.

“He had a type,” Garcia said, “all of the women he killed had dark hair and dark eyes, and he knew them.”

“So they let him into the house?” JJ asked; it was something Lianne hadn’t been able to say. Edward had moved himself and his son across town after Carolina died, she thought he would have moved further, but he hadn’t wanted to leave his job or family.

“Not all of them. From the police report, they think, because it was a hot day, Carolina had left the back door open, they found toys in the doorway, some were broken.” Garcia answered.

“Did the other women have kids?” Reid asked, and Rossi kicked himself. They needed to stay on point, was there anything that might connect Hotch to the unsub; could the unsub have targeted Hotch because of his mother’s murder?

They waited, listening as Garcia typed. “Three of them, two died after Ho….Carolina.”

“How likely is it that they found out about Hotch being in the house when his mom was killed?” JJ asked, and Rossi watched as Reid moved over to his boxes of newspapers.

“Garcia, what was the date, when Hotch’s mom died?” Reid had already shifted the boxes from the last thirty years out of the way.

“June 1975.” Garcia said. Rossi watched as JJ and Prentiss exchanged a look, and a muscle in Morgan’s jaw jumped.

Reid carried a box over to the table, digging through the stack of newspapers within. Rossi stepped forward, removing the newspapers from the top of the stack, eying the date; January 1975. He grabbed a handful, moving them out of Reid’s way until they reached June. Two weeks in, they found what they were looking for.

They waited, watching as Reid read the article, his expression darkening. “There’s an interview with the detective who was investigating the case.”

“Let me guess,” Morgan said, his tone bitter, “he mentions Hotch as a possible lead?”

Rossi could tell, from Reid’s expression it was worse than that.

“No, he states, leaving little doubt, that he ‘is certain that the victim’s son saw her killer’.”

JJ winced, and Prentiss took a shaky breath. Morgan looked he was seriously considering punching the wall; again. Rossi sighed, feeling old. Not all of the things that had changed over the years were good, but at least it was rarer for a detective to make a statement like that.

“Garcia, can you send us what you have on the children of the other victims?” Rossi asked. He hoped it was a good lead, that one of the two would be the unsub, but he knew it was a long shot. The unsub hadn’t planned to take Hotch, not like he had his other victims, it had been a later choice, a new inclusion to the plan. It made Rossi wonder if their arrival had in fact been the thing that had spurred the unsub into speeding up.

The idea alone made him sick to his stomach.

“Sent.” Garcia said, “Is there anything else I can do?”

Rossi shook his head, then remembered she wouldn’t be able to see him, “Keep searching, see if you can find anything we’ve missed.”

“Will do.” Garcia hesitated, “Find him, ok?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Morgan hit the disconnect button on the phone, then slumped back, rubbing a hand over the top of his head. “It doesn’t fit.”

“Does it need to?” Rossi asked, “If our unsub is the child of one of those three victims, it fits. Hotch may not have been keeping a secret, but he didn’t talk; by not talking he cost those women their lives.” They all stared at him, and he knew why. It was harsh, and he didn’t believe it himself, but he wondered if maybe Hotch did. There had been all kinds of theories, when Hotch had first been assigned to the BAU, with regard to why he had sought out the assignment.

The BAU attracted two kinds of people; the ambitious and the damaged.

“There’s another possibility.” Reid slid another newspaper across the table, dated to less than a year previously. On the front page, under the main local headline, was an article about the Boston Reaper; it detailed the last acts of the famous serial killer.

Foyet.

Morgan swore, pushing himself up from his chair and walking over to the window, his shoulders tight with tension. JJ and Prentiss remained silent, JJ reaching out to turn the paper over, hiding the article from sight.

None of them needed to read it to know what it would say. The same story had appeared everywhere, there hadn’t been any way to shield Hotch from it.

After a long moment of silence, Prentiss stood, walking over to the printer and typing in the code that would start the files Garcia had forwarded to them printing. Rossi rummaged through the piles of folders until he found their updated list of suspects. He had no doubt that Garcia would have included notes on any other personal tragedies the two had experienced, but it was a distraction.

It was a hard thing when it was better to think that Hotch had been targeted because of his mother’s murder, rather than his failure to protect his family.

-

Hotch was aware of his various injuries, even through the haze caused by the drugs. Sophie’s body was gone, taken away by the unsub just as Laura’s had been.

Hotch wondered, absently, if the unsub timed how long he left Hotch with the bodies, or if it was dependant on his work schedule. There hadn’t been much of a pattern with the times the other bodies had been dumped, Hotch remembered, though most had been dumped in the early mornings.

Hotch closed his eyes, sighing. His shoulder ached, he thought it was badly bruised. The round of drugs that the unsub had given him before killing Sophie had worn off faster than the last. Not wanting to just lie around waiting for the unsub to take another victim, Hotch had decided to see if he could get the door open himself.

It hadn’t been a very good idea, but at least he knew he had tried.

Hotch snorted, opening his eyes again to glare up at the ceiling. Who did he think he was kidding? Nothing he had done had made his situation any better; he hadn’t been able to do anything to help Laura or Sophie. He was useless. Helpless.

Again.

Hotch rolled onto his side, staring at the closed door. The unsub had come down then, after Hotch had given up on the door, another dose of the drug in hand. Hotch hadn’t had the energy to fight. The unsub had emptied the syringe, then forced Hotch to drink another bowl of broth.

Hotch wished that he knew what crime he was being punished for. The unsub had a plan for him, that much Hotch knew; why else would he have kept Hotch alive for so long, when he had killed the others so quickly?

Hotch wondered how the unsub planned to kill him, what his final punishment would be. Hotch doubted that it would be quick or pretty. It would have to be a closed casket funeral. Hotch tried to stop the thought there but he couldn’t. Thinking about death, about funerals, made him think about Haley.

Haley and Jack.

Jack. Hotch thought of his son again, despite his best efforts. There was nothing to distract him, as he waited for the unsub to return, from thoughts of his young son. His son who had so recently lost his mother, and who might just lose his father as well.

Hotch closed his eyes, trying to control his breathing. Even after he’d lost his own mother he had had his father, and later his stepmother and Sean. Jack, who was so much younger than Hotch had been when he had lost his own mother, barely understood that his mom was dead, that she wasn’t coming back. Hotch couldn’t imagine how he would deal with losing his father as well.

He should have retired, should have put Jack first.

But he couldn’t go back and make a different choice. He was well beyond the point of no return. He had to own his choice, make his death mean something, somehow.

Hotch shuddered, opening his eyes as he became aware of the unsub approaching before the bolts slid back and the door knob turned. The door creaked as it swung open, the unsub grunting as he dragged a man into the basement, leaving a faint trail of blood behind. The unsub dropped the man’s feet, dusting off his hands before turning to face Hotch, dark eyes examining him critically.

 _Making sure that the drugs were still keeping him compliant_ , Hotch thought bitterly.

The man lying unconscious at the unsub’s feet was more of a threat to him than Hotch. Hotch, who might as well be shackled to the floor for all the movement he could manage, his limbs leaden. The unsub took a step closer to Hotch, and Hotch gathered what little energy he had, and struck out at the unsub.

He had to leave a mark, something for his team to notice.

Something to show them who the unsub was.

Even if it was the last thing he did.

-

There was nothing more frustrating than running into yet another dead end. JJ sighed, hitting the end call button and tossing her phone onto the table.

With one dead, the other living out the state, and surprised at getting a phone call asking about his recent whereabouts, neither of the two people who might have had reason to target Hotch were their unsub. Worse still, after breaking for the night, and managing only a few short restless hours of sleep, it had taken JJ almost three hours to learn that much.

She looked up to see Rossi hanging up from his own phone call; he shook his head. The man’s boss had confirmed it; he had been in Colorado for the entirety of the last month.

“We need to start over.” Morgan said, abandoning the file he had been reading. JJ frowned, resting her chin in her hand.

“Start over?” JJ asked, and Morgan nodded, shifting over a little to let Prentiss reclaim the chair beside him.

“There’s something we’ve missed or overlooked.” Morgan said, and Reid frowned, taking a long sip from the coffee mug that seemed to be permanently attached to his hand. He had, JJ knew, been going over the maps again, adding the data on the where the victims had committed their crimes.

Rossi sighed, nodding, “We need to stop focusing on Hotch as a victim, and start focusing on the unsub again.” They were pretty much certain now, JJ knew, that Hotch had been taken by the same unsub. Nothing had turned up to suggest otherwise, and it had been almost four days.

“We know that he plans his kills, that he has specific victims in mind.” Prentiss said, starting the ball rolling.

“He’s local, aware of everything that’s happening.” Morgan said, “He knows when the best time to take his victims is, when he can go unnoticed.”

“He seems to be drawn to crimes that have been committed against children.” Reid said, and Rossi shook his head, holding up a hand.

“More basic. What did he do to his first victim, what solid evidence do we have?” Rossi asked, leaning forward, “He beat a man to death, then shot him.”

JJ frowned, catching on, “How did he get to the point that he was willing to beat someone to death?” It was a lot of violence, for a first kill, or at least it seemed it. JJ remembered what the others had been saying about how the unsub had been escalating. What had happened, before that first victim, to give the unsub the confidence to beat a man to death?

“Barnett wasn’t his first victim.” Prentiss said.

“So why haven’t the locals connected any other cases to this unsub?” Rossi asked. “How hasn’t Garcia found any others during her searches?”

“Because he didn’t kill his other victims.” Prentiss said, “Or maybe he didn’t start leaving the newspaper at the scene until Barnett.”

“So how do we search for other victims?” Rossi asked, reminding JJ of one of her professors from college.

“Every one of the victims we’ve found had committed a crime that went unpunished.” Morgan said, neatly avoiding Hotch’s status, “His earlier victims would have been the same.”

“And how do we search for that?” Rossi asked, “The crimes we know he’s been punishing, they aren’t public record, his victims don’t have criminal records.”

“Barnett did.” Reid said, “He’s the only one that did, it didn’t include the crime he was ultimately killed for, but he had a record. Maybe the earlier victims had criminal records. People knew they had committed crimes, but had gotten away unpunished.”

“And you know what that means,” Rossi said, “our unsub could be law enforcement.”

JJ sighed. It happened more often than any of them were comfortable with, but they knew first-hand how difficult the job could be; especially when a suspect got away.

Morgan grabbed a laptop, flipped it open, and opened up their link to Garcia, hoping she was at her desk. A tired looking Garcia offered them a weak smile, “Tell me you have good news.”

“Sorry baby girl.” Morgan said, “We need you to run a search for us. We think there might be other victims, from before Barnett, they might not have died, but they would have committed a crime and gotten away with it.”

Garcia frowned, “Ok, I really hate to have to say this, but there are a whole lot of people who have committed crimes and gotten away with it; could you give me something to narrow down the results?”

“Look for people who were admitted to hospitals, or who suddenly came forward to admit to a crime.” Rossi said, “Limit it to up to three months before Barnett died.”

“That, my love, I can do.” Garcia turned to look at another screen, her eyes narrowing as she typed, “Twenty-nine people who fit that criteria were admitted to hospitals, another three handed themselves in to the police.”

“Can you cut it down to those who committed crimes against children?” Prentiss asked, and Garcia nodded.

“That gives us, two of the people who handed themselves into the police and twelve of the hospital goers. And, I think I can cut that down a bit more,” Garcia typed furiously, reading from the screen, “There is a list of eight people headed to you as we speak. The other six people, they were assaulted by their loved ones, involved in household accidents, or had the flu.”

“There’s one more thing, Garcia,” Morgan said, and JJ watched as Garcia stilled, recognising the tone of voice he had used, “It’s possible we might be looking at a member of local law enforcement.”

Garcia’s eyes widened, then she nodded, “I’ll see if there’s any officer in common on the cases.”

“Thank you Garcia.” Rossi offered her a smile, and she returned it.

“I am going to keep digging, I’ll use these guys along with the confirmed victims, if there is a connection, I am going to find it. I will not leave a single digital stone unturned.” Garcia nodded to them, and then the laptop screen went dark.

A moment later Sumner pushed the door open, “We’ve got another body.”

-

Hotch could remember what it was like as a child, sitting in a room surrounded by people, and knowing just how they were feeling. He remembered all too well the way his stepmother had felt when his father was late for dinner; when his father smelled of another woman’s perfume.

It had been overwhelming at times, more so when he was sick. It was different though, worse, as he lay on the cold concrete floor, unknown drugs flooding his system. Hotch tried to separate his own emotions for those of the victim and the unsub, but it was an impossible task. He couldn’t focus, couldn’t think. He could only feel.

The man, whose name Hotch didn’t know, was strapped to the chair, thick leather bands holding him in place against the wooden frame. He was terrified, and Hotch’s head throbbed in sympathy; the unsub had subdued the man the same way he had Laura and Sophie.

Hotch shook his head, trying to clear it. He needed to think. The unsub hadn’t brought a gun with him, instead he had brought a car battery, and jump leads. Hotch gasped, fighting against the urge to close his eyes. His heart beat was loud in his ears, his breathing quickened. Panic flared in direct contrast to the growing sense of expectation.

Hotch forced himself to breathe through his nose, he couldn’t feel his own pain, could barely even feel the concrete floor he was lying on. If he closed his eyes, he knew that it would feel like he was strapped to a chair; it was so much harder to focus on himself without a visual reference.

Hotch forced himself to focus on the unsub. He didn’t _want_ to feel what the unsub was feeling, didn’t want to experience first-hand the pleasure that the unsub felt, but it was better than being overwhelmed by the other man’s panic.

By the sheer blinding terror.

If he focused on the unsub, as much as he could, he could profile the man. Hotch had already created a profile in his head, and he knew, from what he remembered of the last two kills, that it was as accurate as it could be; he just didn’t know what the trigger had been.

What had made the unsub start killing.

The first jolt of electricity made Hotch start, all the breath leaving his body as his back arched, his toes curled. He drew in a sharp gasping breath, then another. There were no dots dancing in front of eyes as he would expect, just the pain.

Hotch had wondered, as a child, if he could gain the injuries of others along with the emotion. He remembered when a girl in his class had broken her arm, the jagged end of the bone sticking out of her skin. He had felt it, not as vividly as he felt the pain of the unsub’s victim, but he felt it.

It had confused him more, after he had broken his own arm, and discovered that there was more than just the emotion involved. He could remember how the blinding pain had been accompanied by spots dancing in front of his eyes, his vision fading in and out. Learning the difference and relationships between emotions and physical reactions had been a long learning curve.

Hotch groaned, the pain fading. Opening his eyes, Hotch winced as he caught the smell he had been dreading. The man had soiled himself, not an unusual reaction to being electrocuted, but one of the more unpleasant ones.

Opening his eyes, Hotch focused on the unsub, pushing the man’s discomfort away as much as he could. He could feel the unsub’s need, but there wasn’t anything sexual, no lust. Hotch could remember what it had been like, his shields weakened by blood loss, when an unsub got off on what they were doing.

Hotch shuddered, more as a reaction to the memory than any actual emotion of his own. There was only the mixture of satisfaction and terror, then pain as the unsub reapplied the jump leads to his victim.

-

Prentiss watched as Sumner limped into the room, her eyes narrowed. She had asked him at the crime scene, questioned why he was limping, and he had told her about how he had accidently kicked the doorframe that morning.

Sumner didn’t think his toes where broken, but they were badly bruised.

Prentiss wasn’t sure whether she believed him, or if she was just jumping to conclusions. All she could think about was the fact that Hotch had been taken in the broad daylight from the County Sheriff’s Office car park, and no one had seen anyone suspicious. That more than anything made her even more certain that they were right.

One of the people standing in the room with them, waiting for them to start their profile briefing, was the unsub. Maybe it was Sumner, maybe it wasn’t; she would have to mention it to Rossi.

Innes and Yates came in then, just as she was about to turn to Rossi, followed by the Sheriff. It was time to give the profile; she would have to talk to Rossi later.

Morgan moved forwards first, “We are looking for a white male, aged between thirty and fifty.”

“He is most likely married with children,” Rossi said, “based on the fact that his victims are typically people who have injured children in some way.”

“He has a steady job, he’s a good worker, though recently people may have found him to be moody and distracted.” Prentiss said, falling into the pattern that was so familiar, almost second nature.

“He’s local, he has probably lived here his whole life. He knows the area well enough to know when and where he could abduct and dump his victims. His work likely gives him the freedom to move around the area, he stalked each of his victims, learning their routines before he abducted them.” Reid said.

“He has somewhere that he takes his victims, it’s private; a place he knows he wouldn’t be disturbed.” Rossi said, “It could be a basement or a storage place. Whatever it is, he won’t like anyone going in, he’ll be protective of that place, possessive even.”

Prentiss could see that most of the locals were taking notes, only Yates, Innes, Sumner, and the Sheriff weren’t. “He will have suffered a loss, around three months ago, that’s when he started. His first victims were threatened or assaulted. He convinced two of them to turn themselves in to the police.”

“It was this loss that drives him to commit these crimes. Each of his victims committed a crime that they got away with and he is punishing them for those crimes.” Morgan said.

“He has a plan, and a specific target in mind, most likely the person he sees as being responsible for his loss, for his suffering.” Reid said, “All of the victims so far have been practice runs before he punishes that person. He needs to build up to that final act.”

“How does he know that they committed crimes?” One of the deputies asked.

“It’s possible he knew them, either casually, or via word of mouth, and he managed to connect the events to them somehow. The newspapers he has been leaving with the bodies relate specifically to the crimes committed by each victim.” Morgan answered, and the Sheriff’s eyebrows rose.

“You think it could be one of us?” the Sheriff asked, and Prentiss took a breath. This was always the worst bit, trying not to insult the locals while telling that one of them could be the killer.

“It’s a possibility.” Rossi said, and the Sheriff nodded, giving his people a look that dared them to challenge what Rossi had said. None of them said a word, though both Sumner and Yates looked unimpressed.

“What exactly do you think he lost?” Yates asked, leaning back against the wall, his jaw coloured from breaking up a bar fight the night before. Two of the deputies, and one detective were sporting similar bruises from the same incident.

“Considering how many of his victims were responsible for injuries to children, we think he lost a child.” Rossi answered. Prentiss watched various people’s expressions darkened. Children being harmed was almost a universal sore point; the loss of a child was a tragedy.

There was a good chance that once they caught the unsub, the media would run with that angle. Who could blame a father for avenging the loss of a child?

“Time isn’t on our side,” Prentiss said, after allowing enough time for them to raise any more questions they might have in regard to what had already been said; it wasn’t a surprise that none of them did, “he is almost ready to confront the source of his anger. He had escalated to the point that he killing daily now. It’s possible that he already has his next victim, and he still has Agent Hotchner.”

“Do you think he’s still alive?” Duncan asked from his place perched on the edge of a desk.

“Considering the unsub’s MO, it seems very likely. If Agent Hotchner were dead, we should have already found his body.” Rossi paused, “We are working on the assumption that he is still alive.”

“Someone might have seen the unsub in the proximity of one of his victims,” JJ spoke for the first time, “we need you to use this profile, talk to their neighbours. We also need you to reach out to the local community, see if they know someone who fits the profile.”

The Sheriff waited a beat before he moved forwards, standing in front of the BAU team to address the room at large. “You heard what the agents have to say. You need to keep those characteristics in mind when you’re out there, but I also need you to do your best not to raise alarm, or get people thinking this man is a hero.” He waited for them all to murmur their assent before he nodded, dismissing them.

The Sheriff waited until they had all left before turning to Rossi, “I hope we catch this man before he kills any more people.”

“So do we.” Rossi answered, and the Sheriff nodded, his expression grim.

“I’ll leave you to your work then.” The Sheriff followed the others out, and the only people who remained were Prentiss and her team. The room felt smaller somehow.

“That went better than I expected.” Rossi commented dryly, and Morgan shook his head.

“Only because the Sheriff thinks the same thing. It’s impossible to ignore the possibility, given that the only thing linking all the victims is that they weren’t punished for their crimes.” Morgan said, frowning when his phone rang. He glanced at the number then hit accept, raising it to his ear, “Hey baby girl, what you got?”

Preniss watched as Morgan’s frowned deepened, his head shaking faintly in reaction to whatever it was that Garcia was saying.

“Hold up, I’m putting you on speaker.”

“-ait, are you guys alone?” Garcia sounded panicked, and Prentiss exchanged a worried look with Rossi.

“It’s just us Garcia, it’s ok,” Rossi said.

There was a long pause, “It’s just you guys? None of the locals?”

“Yeah, it’s just us.” Morgan repeated Rossi’s assurance.

“Ok, well, I know I should have caught this earlier, but I wasn’t looking, and I didn’t know that he was with you, until I spotted a note in his recent record, and that makes it so much worse…”

“Whoa, slow down, who?” Morgan asked, frowning at his phone.

There was a pause as Garcia calmed herself. “The unsub, it’s Detective Yates.”


	8. Seven

“Yates?” Rossi asked, already asking himself how he hadn’t seen it. If he was honest, it had been because he hadn’t been looking.

“His wife and kid, they died a month before the first victim was admitted to the hospital,” Garcia explained in a rush, “he was on the list I sent you guys, but so were so many others, I should have seen it sooner….”

“We didn’t see it either.” Morgan said, and Garcia fell silent.

“I thought it might be Sumner.” Prentiss admitted, crossing her arms across her stomach.

“Because of the limp?” Reid asked, and Prentiss nodded. Rossi hadn’t noticed the detective limping, but he hadn’t been at the latest crime scene with them.

“Wait, do you think..” JJ trailed off, pointing at her lower jaw, and Rossi felt his jaw clench. Yates’ bruised jaw, and the way the man had been favouring his right side. The latest victim had had bruising to her legs, more consistent with fighting back than being beaten.

“It’s possible.” Rossi said, and JJ paled a little, before she visibly pulled herself together. They didn’t have time to fall apart, or feel guilty for not seeing it. They had just given a profile, in front of their unsub, that had very likely struck home.

Rossi had to give Yates one thing, he was a damn good actor, the way he’d acted during the profile; but then so many murderers were.

“Garcia,” Prentiss’s shoulders were tense, and Rossi could tell that she was forcing herself to focus. “Yates is going after the person he blames for the death of his wife and kid; is there anything in the records that might help us figure out who that is?”

“No, they couldn’t trace them, every lead was a dead end, the case is still open…”

“But they aren’t really working it anymore.” Morgan finished. “They ran out of leads, other cases took priority.”

Reid tossed a newspaper onto the table, and Rossi could see the headline, he winced, “It’s reported as a ‘tragic accident’.”

“Garcia, do you have Yates’ home address?” Rossi asked, “Can you tell if the house has a basement?”

“He’s listed as living in an apartment, but it’s a one bed so,” there was a short pause, “he moved out of the family house, which has a basement, a month after the funeral.”

“Baby girl, we’re going to need…” Morgan started, but Garcia cut him off.

“It’s on its way to you now.” Garcia said.

“Thanks Garcia.” Rossi said automatically, turning to find JJ already on the phone to the Sheriff, her free hand pressed over her other ear. Morgan grabbed his coat, and Reid adjusted his holster, just a little.

“Just bring him home safe.” Garcia ordered, and Rossi smiled. It was a pretty smile.

“We will kiddo.” Rossi wouldn’t accept any other outcome.

-

Hotch wondered, absently, as he watched blood drip from the tops of the dead man’s fingers, how long it took blood to cool, then congeal. He was sure Reid would know. Hotch blinked, frowned, then rolled onto his back, wondering how long he had been staring at the body.

It seemed like it had been a long time, but he knew that his sense of time was shot. Between the drugs and lack of any changing features in the basement itself, there had been no way to keep track. All he knew was how many times Yates had entered the basement, and how many victims he had killed since taking Hotch captive.

Something had changed, between Sophie and the man, something had changed. Yates had seemed more rushed, less calm. Hotch wondered how long it would be before the detective came back with his next victim. Hotch was sure that the victim would be the one; the one all of the others had been the leading up to.

Hotch closed his eyes, than opened them again, unnerved. Once he closed his eyes, there was nothing, just darkness and his thoughts. Hotch stared up at the ceiling, frowning. In all the time he had been in the basement, the ceiling was the one constant. The rest of the room had changed, furniture moving around a little, various stains being added to the ones that already existed when Hotch had first woken.

Hotch didn’t notice the smell anymore, though he knew it had to be worse. He wasn’t sure about anything else. He couldn’t tell if it was hot or cold, couldn’t even say how badly he had been injured; all he knew was that Yates had kicked him more than once, and solidly enough to shift his position on the floor each time. There was also the grey cast to the side of his right hand, though he couldn’t remember when that had happened.

It seemed like it had been weeks since he’d been stepping out of the borrowed SUV, his phone in hand. His phone, he wondered if his team had found it, or his watch. He frowned, it wasn’t likely, Yates would have thrown them away. Or maybe, they were upstairs in the house Hotch was almost certain was above him.

Hotch sighed, shaking his head, that wouldn’t fit with Yates’ MO, keeping his victim’s things would allow the killings to be tied to him. That wasn’t what Yates wanted.

Hotch blinked, turning his head towards the door. He couldn’t hear anything, but he could feel something, for the first time since the man in the chair had died, Hotch could feel something.

-

There was an actual white picket fence around Yates’ front yard, though the paint was being to peel, and the lawn was overgrown. At some point, JJ thought idly, it must have been a beautiful house.

JJ stayed with Reid, hanging back by the cars as Morgan, Rossi, Prentiss and a small contingent of the locals approached the house. Morgan peeled off with the majority of the locals, heading around the back of the house while Rossi, Prentiss, Innes, and Duncan took the front.

JJ chewed on her bottom lip. She couldn’t shake the sense of dread that had taken root in the pit of her stomach. All she could think was, ‘how did Yates’ family die?’ Garcia hadn’t said. JJ glanced at Reid, remembering the newspaper.

“Spence?”

Reid blinked, then flicked a glance in her direction, eyebrows raised.

“How did Yates’ wife and kid die?” JJ asked, bracing herself. It had to be something common, not a serial killer, or freak accident. Something people would overlook, that they would move past so easily. Normally, in her experience, the police would stop at nothing to catch someone who had killed the family of one of their own, but Yates’ family had gone un-avenged.

“In a car accident. The car was stolen, and the prints they found weren’t in the system.” Reid answered, his attention still on the others as they stormed the house. JJ heard the familiar thud of a door being kicked in, but she wasn’t watching. She was looking for Yates’ car.

According to the locals, no one knew where he was. Yates had left the profile briefing, then vanished. He had been using his own car, so they couldn’t track him; it was old, so Garcia couldn’t even hack the GPS. The locals had sent out a BOLO, asking for anyone who saw the car not to approach, as the driver could be dangerous, and to report it to the police.

JJ only hoped that people listened. She eyed the driveway; a car had been there recently, though how recently she couldn’t tell. “They didn’t have any suspects?”

JJ saw Reid shake his head out of the corner of her eye, “They thought the driver had to have been drunk, but that was as far as they got. He left some blood behind, but no one turned up in the emergency room with injuries consistent with the impact.”

JJ frowned, “So they got DNA and fingerprints from the scene?”

Reid nodded again, “But there were no matching records, and they couldn’t get permission to collect DNA samples from any of the known local drunks.”

Rossi reappeared from the house, looking grim as he motioned for them to join him. Morgan reported that they had found the entrance to the basement, and his team were about to enter it. The smell, he reported, suggested they were in the right place.

JJ hoped, prayed, as she followed Reid across the lawn, that they weren’t too late. That Morgan wouldn’t find Hotch’s body waiting for him in the basement.

“Garcia was right.” Rossi said, leading them inside. Dust covered most of the exposed surfaces, though there were footprints everywhere, along with the odd scuff mark. It was like Yates had abandoned the house for long enough for the dust to start to gather, then changed his mind; he had just never bothered to clean.

Rossi lead them through to the dining room, where Prentiss was stood over the table, gloved hands sorting through a pile of watches and jewellery. Rossi silently pointed to the far end of the table, where two holstered guns sat, along with a familiar badge.

“We’ve got a body.” Morgan reported grimly, and JJ felt Reid stiffen beside her, even as Rossi tensed, clenching his hands into fists, “But it isn’t Hotch.”

Rossi flinched, turning away from the table and heading back out of the house. JJ watched him go, knowing that he would be joining Morgan in the basement. If the body wasn’t Hotch, that left two possible scenarios.

Either Yates had moved Hotch, taken him somewhere else, or Hotch was already dead and they just hadn’t found his body yet.

JJ moved closer to the table, pulling a glove from her own pocket, and covering her hand with it. She flipped the badge wallet open, remembering a time when it had held a blood stained picture of Hotch’s family. Now, there was nothing but Hotch’s credentials.

-

Hotch stared at the dried blood that caked his hands, ducking his head to shade his eyes from the bright sunlight. It had been a shock, the sunlight on his skin after so long with nothing by the meagre light of the single bulb.

His eyes had watered and the nausea had returned, almost overriding the emotions that had been ruling him since Yates had stepped into the basement. It would all be over soon; it would end soon enough.

Hotch flexed his hands, watching as a few flakes of blood dropped off. He wondered how many days it had been, since the first layer had formed. Since he had held Laura’s hand as she died.

Hotch was alone in the truck, his hands tied together with thick rope, the end of hanging over into the front seat. His wrists were raw, but it didn’t hurt; Hotch couldn’t even tell how tight the rope was. There were other people, so many other people, all around him; happy, sad, disappointed, mad, lusting, so many emotions, and none of them his.

Hotch almost couldn’t remember what it was like to feel his own emotions.

The door opened, and Hotch blinked blearily up at Yates, who stared down at him for a long moment before grabbing the rope and using it to haul Hotch out of the truck. Hotch stumbled, trying to figure out how to walk without feeling his feet; Yates didn’t give him time to adjust.

Yates tugged him along, and fresh blood started covering the old. Hotch could just make out the stains on the rope. There were people close by, Hotch was certain, but he couldn’t see them, all he could see was the concrete lot and the parked cars.

Yates lead Hotch to a car in the far corner of the lot, then shoved him in through the open back door, into the foot well. Hotch groaned, suddenly aware of pain in his head. It was a struggle to breathe, his ribs burning with every inhale and exhale. Hotch forced his eyes open, rolling sideways off the body that was shifting beneath his own, just as Yates climbed into the driver’s seat.

Hotch could feel Yates’ anticipation, combined with the other man’s pain, and he knew that this was the man who Yates had been working towards. The man that Yates really wanted to punish.

Hotch just couldn’t understand why he was still alive. There was no reason for him to still be alive, it didn’t make sense. Unless, unless there was a part that Yates wanted Hotch to play, in what was the most important part of Yates’ plan; its conclusion.

-

The coroner and crime scene techs were just arriving as Rossi gathered his team and the locals on the front lawn of the Yates family home. There were questions that needed answering, and they needed answering then.

“We need to work out where Yates is headed.” Rossi said, eyeing the various police officers, and the two deputies, “To do that, we need you to tell us everything you know about the guy.”

“He’s an ass.” Detective Gregory, Yates’ one time partner, said, “He’s always been a ass, but he’s been worse since Mary died.”

“You knew his wife?” JJ asked, and Gregory nodded, along with two of the other officers.

“She used to organise things, little charity events, barbeques in the summer. She worked just as much as Yates, but she always made an effort.” Gregory shook his head, “It never seemed right, that we couldn’t catch the guy who killed her and Danny; Danielle, their daughter. She was twelve.”

“Was there somewhere special to them?” Reid asked, and Rossi watched as Gregory shrugged.

“Not that I know of, but you met the guy, Yates isn’t exactly a big talker.”

“What about Mary?” Rossi asked, trying a new tack. Gregory had clearly known and liked Mrs Yates, “Did she ever mention anywhere?”

Gregory shook his head, “No, not even when their anniversaries rolled around. They were the type that considered a romantic dinner at home the best celebration possible.”

“Where did it happen?” Morgan asked, and Gregory turned to him, raising any eyebrow.

“Where did what happen?”

Rossi caught on, remembering what they’d found with the other victims. They were all killed close to the scene of their crime, it made sense to consider that Yates would do the same again for the man who had killed his family; if that was who Yates was after.

“Where were did Mary and Danielle die?” Rossi asked, his voice harsh. Sometimes, people answered quicker if you yelled at them.

Gregory frowned, looking a little stunned, “You think he’s going to kill the guy there?”

“He likes dumping his victims close to where they committed their crimes, and we’ve seen him kill one of his victims close to where they committed their crime.” Reid said, and Rossi could see he was thinking of how Milton had died. “He has been reflecting his victim’s crimes in the way he kills them. His family died in a car accident, that’s how he will kill the man who he thinks killed them.”

Gregory shook his head, “Jesus.”

“Where?” Rossi repeated, managing to hold himself back from shaking the detective. They didn’t have time to waste.

Gregory started heading towards the cars, “It’s faster to show you, and it’s not far from here.”

“Don’t use your lights and siren unless you have to, we don’t want him to know we’re coming.” Rossi ordered, raising his voice so that the other locals could hear. The last thing they needed was to lose Yates, or to force him to act before he planned to.

“I’ll stay here.” JJ said, “I’ll let you know if they find anything.”

Rossi nodded, reaching out to pat her on the arm, “We’ll let you know when we find him.”

Morgan and Prentiss were already headed to their SUV, Morgan pulling his keys from his pocket. Rossi motioned for Reid to follow him to the other SUV, his own keys in hand.

Wherever it was they were going, Rossi hoped it was someone public enough that Yates’ wouldn’t risk making his kill in daylight.

He didn’t want to consider the alternative or what it could mean for Hotch.

-

The drive was a relatively short one, or so it seemed to Hotch as he lay across the back seat of the car, trying to avoid rolling onto the man lying in the foot well. From what little Hotch could make out of the man, he was young, more of a kid than a man, and of medium build. Blood matted the short blond hair.

Yates had used his preferred method of abduction it seemed.

Hotch wasn’t surprised when, a few moments after the car had pulled to a halt, Yates pulled him roughly from the car, not seeming to care whether Hotch stayed on his feet or not. Hotch fell to his knees, just barely managing to roll onto his side rather than land face first on the gravel road.

Hotch could feel Yates’ anger, the hate that he felt for the man in the foot well, and he looked up, watching as Yates bodily dragged the kid from the vehicle. Catching a sight of the kid’s face, Hotch couldn’t help but think it didn’t look like the face of someone to have inspired a killing spree, not that they ever did.

Very few people looked like monsters until people knew what they were. It was just nicer to think they did.

Hotch frowned, wondering at how he was already thinking of the kid, the terrified, half conscious kid, as guilty, when he had no idea whether he was or not. All he had was how Yates’ felt; something that would be meaningless in a court of law.

Hotch watched as Yates dragged the kid down the gravel road, stopping a good distance away, and pushing the kid to the ground. Hotch flinched, feeling the impact, his ankle burning along with his ribs, and the constant throbbing pain at the back of his skull.

Yates kicked the kid once, hard in the stomach, and Hotch curled up, the agony overriding the anger. By the time it had started to fade, Yates was hauling Hotch to his feet. Hotch blinked, struggling weakly as Yates took hold of the rope again.

Hotch stumbled along behind as Yates pulled him up the road, and onto the verge parallel to the kid. Yates tied the rope around the trunk of a tree, then kicked Hotch’s legs out from under him.

Hotch was dimly aware of the breath leaving his body as his body impacted with the ground, but he didn’t feel it. Yates’ anger, the anticipation of what was to come, was stronger than even the kid’s pain as he lay panting in the road.

Hotch listened as Yates walked back to the car, fighting back the emotion, struggling to think. He heard a car door slam, and the sound of an engine starting, and Hotch forced himself to move, struggling onto his knees, turning so that he was facing the road. He knew he needed to more, to do _something_ before Yates did whatever he was planning to do. And he needed to do it fast.

Yates gunned the engine, and Hotch stilled, unable to force rationale thought beyond the raw emotions. This was it, that was what Yates’ emotions were telling Hotch, this was the moment; at the same time, Hotch felt a wave of uncertainty, confusion and dread, then realisation quickly followed by pure, unadulterated terror. It all came in a flood, each emotion merging into the next in the split second it took the awareness of what was about to happen to hit the kid.

Hotch blinked, sluggishly thinking that the last thing he wanted was to still be facing the road. He did not want to watch what he knew, distantly, was coming; what he could do nothing to stop. Yates gunned the engine again, wheels churned up gravel and the kid desperately tried to move, cutting up his hands and knees in the process.

The thought had come too late for Hotch to react in time.

-

Morgan pulled in behind the two squad cars that were blocking the car, cutting the engine and shoving his door open at the same time. None of the police on scene had noticed their arrival, and for a moment, Morgan considered calling them out for it; that was until he saw the track beyond the cars.

Morgan froze, one hand on the hood of the closest squad car to hold himself steady, staring. He was dimly aware of Prentiss beside him, her hands covering her mouth as she turned away. Two of the first responders were throwing up on the verge next to them.

They were too late, again. Yates had been and gone, leaving more carnage in his wake.

Morgan forced himself to move forward, to look at the body, or what was left of it, as Rossi and Reid joined Prentiss. The locals all hung back, none of them wanting to take too close a look at the scene. The smell, of blood and other less pleasant, rarer seen, things was strong, even back by the squad cars. As Morgan walked forward, the smell was stronger still, but he forced himself to ignore it.

The body lay a good ten metres from where the bloody trail began, barely any skin left on it. Scraps of white cloth were visible, along with bits of denim. A few sorry clumps of blond hair were still in the scalp, but there was nothing else about the body that could be used to ID it on sight. Morgan didn’t even think they would be able to use dental records.

But it wasn’t Hotch, and as cold as Morgan knew it made him, that was enough for him.

He turned, looking away from the body for the first time since he had stepped up to the squad cars, taking in the rest of the scene. He frowned, moving towards the verge, there was something on the grass.

Morgan knew he was contaminating the scene, as careful as he was being not to step on anything, he still shouldn’t have been there. He should have waited, but he knew time was a major factor. The coroner and crime scenes techs would still be at Yates’ house, busy with that scene.

There wasn’t time to wait for them.

Morgan crouched down, eying the grass; there was blood, not much, but it wasn’t from the victim. There was a small pool on the grass, and a smear across the bark of the tree. There were other marks, but nothing he recognised as being caused by anything in particular.

Morgan glanced back at the blood on the road, before he eyed the blood pool again. It definitely wasn’t from the victim. Standing, Morgan looked around, searching for any sign of where the person who had left the blood had gone.

There was a faint trail, a few drops of blood, leading from the pool into the road, what looked like drags marks, which stopped abruptly. Morgan winced; they stopped next to the main blood pool. Whoever had been bleeding, they had been dragged into the car that had killed the victim.

Morgan gave the smaller blood pool one last glance before he made his way back to the squad cars, where the others were waiting.

“It’s not Hotch.” Morgan said, and Reid’s shoulders slumped, just a little.

“Any sign of him?” Rossi asked, and Morgan nodded.

“It looks like Yates dumped him on the verge, drove over the victim, then reversed and loaded Hotch back into the car.” Morgan said, glancing at Gregory and Innes who had joined the others, their expressions grim.

“Yates stole the car that killed his family from lockup.” Innes said, and Morgan glanced over his shoulder at the body then back at her. It was a new, though not surprising, touch; killing with the weapon used in the original crime.

“What makes you think he made Hotch watch?” Rossi asked, ignoring the locals in favour of Morgan.

“There’s blood on the verge, and drag marks.” Morgan said, “The question is, where is Yates taking Hotch now?”

“People are going to notice the car,” Prenitss nodded towards the body, “it had to be covered in blood after that.”

“I don’t think Yates cares anymore,” Morgan said, thinking of all the things Yates hadn’t done with this victim. There was no newspaper, no care taken not to be caught. “He’s done.”

“You think he’ll kill himself.” Gregory said, picking up on what they weren’t saying, “What does that mean for your guy?”

Rossi shook his head, “Hotch shouldn’t even still be alive, it doesn’t fit with Yates’ MO.”

They were all silent for a moment, each lost in their own thoughts.

“The question is,” Prentiss said, “where has Yates gone? He has to know he can’t go home, to the house or the apartment; he’s not going to hand himself in. Where is there left to go? Why didn’t he just end it here?”

“There’s something else he needs to do.” Reid said.

“What?” Innes asked, “You said that this was what he was working up to, killing the bastard that killed his family. What else could he need to do besides blow his brains out?”

“Hotch.” Rossi answered. “He took Hotch for a reason, something he hadn’t planned. That’s the only thing it could be.”

Morgan pulled his phone out of its holster, dialling Garcia’s number automatically. She picked up after the first ring.

-

Everything seemed muffled, that was what Hotch thought, staring up at a different ceiling. He could remember, vaguely, the car ride from the track to where they were; the smell of blood so strong, the absence of fear or anger.

It was almost like Yates wasn’t feeling anything at all, as though murdering the kid who had killed his family had destroyed the man’s ability to feel, but there was something there, teasing at the edge of Hotch’s awareness.

There was a carpet underneath Hotch, the floor softer than it had been in the basement, and there was a breeze. Turning his head a little Hotch saw the patio door, murky with grime, stood open onto the overgrown garden. He frowned, staring at the tree that stood in the centre of the garden; he didn’t know where he was or why he was still alive.

Hotch shifted his weight, his frown deepening when his body seemed unwilling to follow his commands. The drugs weren’t as oppressive as they had been before; it didn’t make sense that he couldn’t seem to move.

Hotch blinked, turning his head at the sound of a round being chambered. He found himself staring into Yates’ eyes, his brain finally giving a name to the emotion that had been teasing at the edge of his awareness. It was grief, only now anger seemed to be creeping back in, along with despair.

Yates’ hadn’t gotten the peace from killing that he had expected, or at least Hotch thought that was it. There was something else though, in the way that Yates was staring at him, fingers flexing around the butt of the gun.

Hotch just couldn’t think what it was.

-

It had to be a place that had meaning, for both Hotch and Yates, they had decided, but there hadn’t been any connection between the two, not that they had found initially.

As they had stood, less than 100 metres from the body of Yates’ last victim, Garcia had managed to find them one. Prentiss checked the directions again, directing Morgan down a road, watching as their blinking light on the GPS edged closer to the one that marked their destination, willing Morgan to drive faster.

Yates had re-enacted his family’s last moments, in the same place, with the same car, then he’d dumped it, moving on. They had spotted the car, battered and stained from its most recent use, in the car park of a motel as they’d passed. A call had come over dispatch, reporting a car having been stolen from the same lot.

Hotch was the only one of Yates’ victims unaccounted for, and he was Yates’ victim; Garcia had told them, after giving them the address, that traces of Hotch’s blood had been found on Laura Henrickson’s body. They just had to hope that Yates hadn’t killed him.

That this time, they weren’t too late; weren’t a step behind.

As Morgan turned the last sharp corner before their destination, Prentiss considered what Hotch’s blood on Henrickson’s body meant. Either Hotch had been with her when she’d died or he’d been somewhere close by; odds were, based on what little Morgan had told them about the basement, Hotch had seen the deaths all four of Yates’ most recent victims.

Hotch was the sole witness to what Yates had done. That didn’t mean that Yates would kill him; after all, Yates had nothing left to lose, had apparently completed his quest for vengeance; the only problem was Hotch.

Or at least, it had been, until Garcia had worked her magic, finally making the connection between Hotch and their unsub.

The car that Yates had stolen sat on the curb, outside the house, doors open, looking eerily like the car that Hotch had used to reach his own home during the final hour of Foyet’s life. Prentiss shook her head, refusing to allow the two cases to overlap; refusing to let her mind compare the two cases.

Prentiss was the first out of the car, pulling her gun and moving into the lead, knowing Morgan would be behind her. She heard the others pull up behind them, but she kept moving, heading around the house.

The front door was shut, covered by a wooden board, the nails glinting in the late afternoon light.

Prentiss kept her pace steady, ducking the branches that overhung the path down the side of the house, holding her gun steady. Rounding the corner, she raised it, catching sight of the open patio door. There was blood on the door frame.

Prentiss stopped, just short of the door, turning to meet Morgan’s gaze. He nodded, and they moved together, guns up, one either side of the door, looking into the house.

Hotch knelt on the floor in the middle of the room, pale and covered in blood. He was shaking, his attention fixed on Yates, who was pointing his gun at Hotch’s head. Prentiss glanced to her side as Rossi and Reid appeared, closely followed by Innes and Gregory, who hung back out of sight.

Yates looked up at them then, his eyes cold, unfeeling. “You took longer than I expected.”


	9. Eight

The sight of Yates pointing his service weapon at Hotch’s head was the last thing Rossi had wanted to see. There was a part of him that thought Yates wouldn’t pull the trigger; after all the man had already killed someone that way. Yates didn’t do repeats.

The thought didn’t help him though, as he stared at the gun, Yates’ finger poised on the trigger. The safety was off, if Yates’ squeezed the trigger that would be it; a point blank shot to the head. Few people survived that.

“You don’t need to do this.” Rossi said, edging a little closer, stepping into the house, holstering his own gun. There were others covering Yates, the loss of one wouldn’t make much difference in the grand scheme of things.

Rossi glanced at Hotch, who barely seemed to be aware of what was happening; that worried Rossi more than anything else. In all the years he’d known Hotch, in all the years they’d worked together, he had never seen his friend so out of it.

Yates didn’t react, didn’t move, just stared at Rossi. The gun didn’t even waver.

“If you surrender now, we can sort something out.” Rossi said, using the standard opening gambit. It rarely worked, but it was always worth a try. “I understand why you did it, he killed your family. A lot of people will understand.”

Yates’ eyes narrowed, “They’ll claim to understand. I know what you’re trying to do, but it won’t work.”

“What am I trying to do?” Rossi asked, keeping his voice steady, reasonable. He took a single step closer, slowly, not daring to break eye contact with Yates.

Yates smiled, a bitter twisted thing, and Hotch swayed a little, confusion flashing across his face for just a moment before the glazed look returned. Blood dripped from Hotch’s hands onto the floor. The carpet was slowly turning a deep red.

Rossi frowned, his eyes dropping to Hotch for a split second, just as Yates moved, pressing the muzzle of the gun against Hotch’s temple.

“Did you figure it out?” Yates asked, and Rossi didn’t need to ask what the other man was talking about. The position of the gun told him all he needed to know.

“Your wife lost her mother, when she was a child. She was murdered by the same man who murdered Carolina Hotchner.” Rossi said, repeating what Garcia had told them.

Yates growled, “He saw him,” The gun jabbed into Hotch’s temple again as Yates’ spoke, adding emphasis, “could have stopped the bastard before he killed again. But he didn’t.” Yates wasn’t looking at Rossi anymore, and he took the chance to move forward again.

“That isn’t the only reason though, is it?” Rossi asked, and Yates’ turned, his eyes a little wild, the gun wavering, as it was almost aimed at Rossi; and that was exactly what Rossi wanted to happen.

“What?” Yates spat.

“You weren’t there.” Rossi didn’t repeat himself; he just kept going. Kept attacking.

Yates was frowning, muscles in his jaw working. Rossi knew when he was hitting a sore point, he’d done it so many times over the years, knew exactly what buttons he needed to press, just from the different reactions to different statements.

“You were meant to be there weren’t you?” Rossi asked, and Yates recoiled, the gun shifting. It wasn’t aimed at Hotch anymore, but it was still too close to his head. Rossi kept going, ignoring a hissed curse from Morgan. “They would still be alive you’d been there, that’s what you keep thinking isn’t it?”

Yates pointed the gun at Rossi, but his hand was shaking. Yates didn’t say anything, just glared. Rossi willed Hotch to move, to get out of the way, but the other man didn’t move. Hotch just knelt there, swaying ever so slightly.

“None of this is going to bring them back, or make you feel any less guilty. Killing him won’t bring Mary or her mother back.” Rossi said.

“You think I don’t know that?” Yates asked, his voice soft, dangerous. “You think I don’t know that I can’t change the past? All I can do is try to make things right, even the score. Punish those who should have been punished.”

Rossi could see where Yates was headed, and it was the last place he wanted. “You don’t need to do this Yates. It’s over.”

Yates’ eyes narrowed, then he smiled again, the same bitter smile as before, “Yes I do.” Yates lifted the gun, and Rossi watched mutely, “This way, I get to go on my own terms.” With that, Yates pulled the trigger.

-

Reid trailed behind the others as they rushed into the room. He watched as Emily cleared Yates’ gun, avoiding the gore as she moved around his body. Rossi knelt beside Hotch as Morgan vanished further into the house, checking for signs of anyone else.

Gregory and Innes hung back. There was nothing for them to do; it was over. Yates was dead; there would be no more victims. The case was closed, the unsub dead.

All Reid could think about was the fact that Hotch hadn’t even flinched when Yates had shot himself, hadn’t reacted to the gun being jabbed into his temple. Had barely even blinked since they’d arrived.

Reid moved closer to Rossi and Hotch, watching as Rossi tried to get Hotch to focus on him.

“Hotch.” Rossi said, tapping the other man on his unmarred cheek, “Aaron.”

Hotch didn’t react, and Reid swallowed back worry. It was natural, after the day Hotch must have had, to withdraw, anything else and Reid would have been more worried; or so he told himself. He didn’t think about how Hotch had been after killing Foyet, after spending ten minutes cradling his dead wife’s body in his arms.

Hotch hadn’t shut down then.

Rossi gave up trying to gain Hotch’s attention, turning instead to the rope that was wrapped around Hotch’s wrists. It was caked with blood, and Reid could see the edge of the raw wounds beneath it. Hotch had struggled, at some point, enough to make the rope dig into his skin all of the way around his wrists. If it had just been caused by Yates’ pulling him along, Reid thought, it would have just been on the one side.

“There’s an ambulance on its way.” Emily said as she moved to stand beside him, her gaze fixed on Hotch. Reid nodded, reaching for his phone, and tugging it out of from under the edge of his Kevlar vest.

Emily turned to him, eyebrows raised, “I’m going to call Garcia.”

Emily frowned, glancing at Hotch before she met Reid’s gaze again. He knew what she was thinking, had thought the same thing for a moment, but Garcia would want to know; deserved to know they had found Hotch, and he was still alive. Not unharmed, but alive.

“I’ll call JJ.” Emily said, pulling out her own phone and edging over to the patio door again.

Reid sighed, dialling Garcia’s number, his gaze on Hotch as he willed the ambulance to get there faster. All he could think about, as Garcia demanded an update, was the blood stained carpet and Hotch’s blank expression.

Yates might be dead, but Reid wasn’t so sure that he hadn’t claimed one more victim than any of them would be willing to consider.

-

JJ offered Morgan a faint smile as he stood, surrendering his chair to her as she joined them in the hospital waiting room. It had been two hours since Yates’ death, an hour and a half since Hotch had been wheeled off on a gurney to have his wounds tended.

JJ eyed each of her team mates in turn, from Morgan, who was pacing the room, to Reid who was settled into the corner, hands clasped together between his knees. She didn’t know what had happened exactly, just the basic facts that Prentiss had given her, and the few things the locals had mentioned.

She had, however, seen the entirety of Yates’ basement; she had even asked one of the crime scene techs to walk her through it, giving a rough timeline. There had been layers of blood in some places, in others the blood had just been obviously old, or very recent.

“They haven’t ID’d the body we found in the basement yet,” JJ said, wanting to break the silence. Better to think about the case then just sit around thinking the worst. “But Deputy Innes told me they’ve identified the last victim.”

There was a pause, then Rossi straightened in his chair a little. JJ tried not to stare at his hands, but it was hard, coated in blood as they were. “Who was he?”

“How did they ID him?” Morgan asked, almost at the same time, and JJ watched as the two men exchanged a look.

“His parents reported him missing, and he was known locally, for his drinking.” JJ said, remembering the way Innes had worded it, the slightly bitter edge to the woman’s words. “Lewis Pearson, his parents have a lot of money, apparently.”

Prentiss grimaced, “What about the woman?”

JJ shook her head, “They aren’t certain yet, but they think she’s Sophie Lawson.”

“What was her crime?” Morgan asked, leaning on the wall across from the row of chairs.

JJ sighed, shaking her head again, “It’s not clear, Duncan said that the friend that reported her missing had mentioned that Sophie didn’t always think before she spoke. They’re waiting on the family for a formal ID.”

Prentiss grimaced, and JJ sympathised, she had seen the crime scene photos. Sophie’s death might have been quick, but it hadn’t been pretty. The ME would have to be careful how much of her they showed the family.

“How did it go with the press?” Rossi asked, and JJ fought not to wince. After speaking to Prentiss, she had arranged a brief press conference, with the Sheriff, to give a statement about what had happened. It had been hard, avoiding the leading questions, making sure not to mention any names.

They were keeping the identity of the killer secret for the time being. A cop turned killer never looked good, though JJ was sure that once the press got hold of more details they would find a way to turn it around.

There would be headlines about the detective punishing sinners, and the details of how his tragic loss had driven him on a mission. JJ just hoped that no mention of Hotch ever made it into the papers.

There would be enough to deal with, without that.

“Why Hotch?” JJ bit her lip, mentally cursing herself for asking the question out loud. She knew, from the comments Prentiss had made, and the way Garcia had spoken, during the brief conversation they had had following the press conference, that they had finally figured that much out.

Silence reigned for a few minutes before Rossi shifted his weight, reaching out to press his hand against her wrist, “Because Yates saw himself in Hotch, only Hotch managed to save his kid.”

“And?” JJ asked, knowing there was something else. They had found Hotch and Yates far too quickly for there not to have been something more.

“Mary Yates, her mother was killed by man who murdered Carolina Hotchner.” Morgan answered, “Yates knew, and he took Hotch to the house his mother died in.”

JJ frowned, “The house Hotch’s mother died in?”

Morgan nodded, and Reid shifted his weight, sticking his legs out in front of him. Prentiss rubbed her forehead and Rossi glanced towards the closed door again, as though willing a doctor to appear and force an end to the conversation.

“It’s empty?” JJ tried again. She wanted, _needed_ , to understand as much about what had happened as possible. She had no interest in just forgetting it, in just accepting that Yates was dead.

Rossi sighed, “According to Garcia, Hotch’s father never sold the house. Hotch inherited it after his father died, and it was rented until recently. It’s been empty for the past year.”

JJ opened her mouth; wanting to ask why Hotch still owned the house his mother had died in, then stopped herself. She had the answers she needed. Everything else could wait.

JJ sat back, tilting her head back, exhausted suddenly. It had been days since she had last gotten a full night’s sleep, but she’d had a reason to keep going, to stay awake. Now, with Yates dead, and Hotch being looking after by trained medical personnel, JJ found herself drifting off.

Someone would wake her when there was news.

-

Rossi was the only one still awake by the time the Doctor came with news. He had given up his chair to Morgan, knowing that it was the only way to stop the man from pacing a hole in the floor.

“Aaron Hotchner?” The doctor asked, not seeming too sure that she was in the right place.

Rossi offered her a smile, nodding, “That would us.”

The doctor hesitated, and Rossi sighed, fishing his badge from his pocket and showing it to her.

“Hotchner’s our boss, and I’m the next of kin on all of his forms.” Rossi knew, because Hotch had asked him after Foyet. With Haley gone, Hotch had decided that it was better to list one of the team on his forms than any of his family. Hotch hadn’t wanted to burden them, should anything happen.

Rossi hadn’t been impressed with that perspective at the time, but he had to admit, as he watched the doctor eye his badge then glance at her paperwork, it made things easier.

JJ had just woken when the doctor walked the last few steps to bring herself level with them, flipped the file open. “Mister,” she paused, gaze flicking to Rossi, then back to the file, “Agent Hotchner is stable, though he’s lost a lot of blood, and taken quite a beating. We also have concerns about the drugs we found in his system. There is evidence of prolonged exposure, and his kidneys aren’t looking too good, that means we can’t give him a lot of the drugs that we normally would. We’re going to watch, see if his levels even out, then we’ll review his situation.”

“But he’s stable?” Reid asked, making the doctor start. She hadn’t realised he was awake.

“For now, until we get the results back exactly what drugs are in Agent Hotchner’s system, we can’t say for certain.” The doctor answered.

Rossi glanced at the others, who were all awake, the doctor’s voice having woken them out of their sleep. “Can we see him?” Rossi asked after a long moment, and the doctor hesitated for a moment before she nodded.

“You can go in one at a time, for no more than five minutes each.” She told them, her voice firm, “And don’t expect him to wake up anytime soon. Between the blood loss, shock and the drugs, it’s a wonder he was awake at all when he was brought in.”

-

None of them speak after they’ve had their allotted time in Hotch’s room, they just group together in the waiting room, waiting for Rossi to return. He had chosen to go in last, letting the others go in first while he stayed in his chair.

Prentiss sighed, pressing her hand against her forehead, aware of how much her neck hurt. They all needed sleep, then they would have to talk to the locals, finish up their part of the investigation. There was paperwork to be done, reports to be filed.

Prentiss sighed again, lowering her hand and titling her head back, ignoring the noise Morgan made. “What are we going to do?” The case was over; she didn’t have to focus on the job anymore. She could fall apart if she really wanted to, or at least let her feelings show.

“We call Jessica, let her know that we have Hotch. Then we talk to the doctors, see if he can be moved. If he can’t, we make arrangements, if he can, we make arrangements.” JJ listed off, worrying at the edges of her phone’s outer casing as she stared at the doorway.

“Arrangements?” Morgan asked, and JJ nodded.

“Accommodation if he has to stay here, transport and hospital admission if he can move.” The way JJ said it, Prentiss got the impression JJ had had to do all of that more often than any of them really considered. She’d known that JJ arranged a lot of the things they needed, that she filled out a lot of the paperwork, almost as much as Hotch did, but it was easy to forget how much JJ really did.

Prentiss reached out, covering JJ’s hand with her own, and squeezing hard, just as a weary looking Rossi appeared, closely followed by a stern looking nurse.

“Hotel.” Rossi said, motioning for them to stand and move. He didn’t say anything else as he herded them out of the hospital, only speaking when they reached the hotel, ordering them all to sleep, and to make any phone calls they felt they needed to.

That Morgan pulled out his phone and hit his speed dial to Garcia was no surprise.

-

It was a week before the doctors allowed Hotch to be moved. He hadn’t shown any signs of waking up, and Rossi knows that the others find his stillness unnerving.

The Hotch they knew has been blown up, beaten, and stabbed, and every time he had kept going. Rossi knows he is the only one to have ever see Hotch fall, and stay down. It had been years before, when Hotch has still been a junior agent, and it’s not a fond memory. The case had been a doozy, all but two of the agents involved coming away seriously injured.

There hasn’t been a case that bad in some time; these days it always seemed to be just one of them getting taken down. Rossi couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if there was a case where they all got injured. Or where he and Hotch were put out of action.

He wasn’t sure how the kids would deal with that, if it ever happened, considering the state they were in trying to cope with waiting for Hotch to wake up.

Rossi sighed, shifting in the chair, looking up from his book and looking at Hotch, who was still so still. The bandages covering both of his wrists were the only truly visible signs of the trauma Hotch had suffered, the bindings around his fractured ribs were hidden by the cotton gown, and the sheet. The bruises had faded to a sickly yellow colour, still visible on Hotch’s pale skin, though the hospital lighting played tricks, hiding them from sight unless you stood in the right place.

Various tubes kept Hotch nourished and pain free, though Rossi’s eyes were always being drawn to the various needle marks visible on Hotch’s arms. Those bruises seemed to be taking the longest to fade, and bothered Reid more than any of them.

Rossi always tried to cover them when he knew Reid would be visiting. There was no reason for the kid to feel so guilty, they’d done everything they could. Yes, they had missed the fact that the unsub was working with them, and they might have been able to stop Hotch being taken if they’d gone everywhere in pairs, but there was no point on dwelling on what they could have done.

If Rossi did that, he would never leave his house. There were so many times that he’d come away from a case, seeing in hindsight, all of things he could have done that would have saved a life, or lead them to the unsub sooner.

You learned what you could, then you moved on.

Rossi sighs, there still weren’t any signs of movement, it didn’t look like Hotch would be waking up anytime soon.

-

JJ knew the moment she stepped into the corridor that something was wrong. On every other visit, the corridor leading to Hotch’s room, the one they had moved him to not long after he’s woken up for the first time, had been quiet, and there hadn’t really been many people around. It had been peaceful.

Now, there were nurses hurrying around, and Morgan was standing, pressed back against the wall as far as possible, out of the way of the nurses, watching whatever was happening inside Hotch’s room. JJ hurried to Morgan’s side, dodging nurses, her blood turning cold at the sounds she could hear coming from Hotch’s room.

She stopped beside Morgan, her jaw dropping as she watched Hotch, who had been laying staring at the ceiling for much of the two days he had been awake, struggling against the nurses. He yelled at them, kicking out, not seeming to notice that his wrists were bleeding.

JJ watched silently as one of the nurses managing to get a needle into Hotch’s arm, injecting what JJ guessed had to be a sedative. She felt a little sick, watching it, remembering the reports on Hotch’s injuries. Yates had used a mix of drugs, all obtained from the hospital where his wife had worked as a nurse.

It hadn’t been a mix that the doctors had ever seen used before, and there had been worry about potential side effects. They had listed mood changes, JJ remembered, along with suggesting that Hotch’s fugue state when they’d found him had likely been due to the mixture of the drugs and the trauma.

JJ swallowed hard, trying not to flinch when Hotch started to sag, turning his angry gaze towards them. JJ felt Morgan’s hand on her arm, and she turned to him, meeting his gaze. Morgan squeezed her wrist gently, and tugged on her arm, pulling her away as one of the nurses started to move towards them, her intent clear.

It wasn’t a good time to be visiting. JJ knew what the nurse would have said, if they had stayed to hear her. Something about Hotch needing to rest, and that they should come back another time.

JJ wasn’t so sure that it would make any difference, and she hated herself for even thinking that. It was Hotch, he would get through it, whatever it was that was happening to him.

He wouldn’t let Yates win.

Just like he hadn’t let Foyet win.

Hotch didn’t lose.

JJ hoped.

-

There was a part of Rossi that wished Hotch had stayed in the fugue state. Staring at the ceiling, never saying a word, just staring, his gaze empty.

Rossi hadn’t felt comfortable, sitting by Hotch’s side as the other man just lay there, but he’s been more comfortable then than he was faced with Hotch in a rage.

The anger, the rage, was worse than the emptiness. Rossi watched as Hotch struggled against the orderlies, fighting against them and cursing them, Morgan stiff at his side. There was nothing they could do to help, nothing but watch and wait.

A nurse appeared with a sedative, hesitating, trying to talk Hotch into calming before she was forced to administrator the injection. They had wanted to avoid drugs as much as possible, but it seemed that they wouldn’t be able to much longer.

The nurse added another needle mark to the selection that Hotch already had on both arms. The more recent marks are cleaner, neater, less bruised. If he didn’t know, Rossi thought to himself, if he hadn’t seen her inject Hotch, he might not even have noticed them. It was just that his brain couldn’t help but see them. Yates had seen to that, and Reid, with his wide eyes and his avoidance. Rossi hasn’t asked, it wasn’t his place.

Reid would tell him if he wanted to. It was the kid’s choice.

Rossi sighed, watching as Hotch sagged, his struggles weakening as the sedative slowly took effect. It was the last day before Strauss expected them back at work, all of them but Hotch. Rossi had intended to tell Hotch what was happening, more because it was something he felt Hotch needed to know, than because he thought Hotch would hear him.

It was a struggle to see his friend in the man laid on the bed, dark hair disorderly, forehead sweaty, his eyes glazed. In the two weeks since Yates had died, Rossi hadn’t seen Hotch, hadn’t seen _Aaron_ in those dark eyes, he’d only seen a stranger. One who was angry, and concerned by turns, one who barely seemed to be aware of himself.

Rossi hated it, but he refused to let it show. Refused to let it control him. He was going to be the strong one, show the kids that they would get through it, even if he didn’t really believe it himself.

Time would tell.

Rossi sighed, watching the nurses work to re-bandage Hotch’s wrists, and reinsert the IVs that he had pulled out during his struggle. He wished that there was someone who would be able to keep an eye on Hotch while they were at work, but there wasn’t anyone.

Jessica was busy with Jack, who she couldn’t bring herself to expose to the hospital and the broken shell of his father. As long as there was a chance that Hotch might recover, she wanted Jack to remain unaware of what was happening. Rossi had made the trip to her to talk about it, had seen the way her hands shook as she spoke, her eyes drifting towards the door to her nephew’s room.

Jack, she had said, didn’t need the memory of his father’s blank stare, or his father struggling against the hospital orderlies. Better he remember his father as he had been, should the worst happen.

Like the rest of them, Jessica couldn’t face the possibility that Hotch wouldn’t get better. They would have to soon though, Rossi thought, watching as Hotch’s eyes slid closed.

If Hotch didn’t show signs of improving soon, Rossi wasn’t sure how much hope there was.

And Rossi didn’t have a clue what to do with that thought, or the way it made him feel.

All he knew was he wished he’d had the chance to shoot Yates himself.

-

It was easier than Hotch had expected it to be; breaking the safety razor down until he has the bare blade in his hand. It was small and hard to grip; but he managed.

Hotch weighed the blade in his hand, or tried to, before he drew it across the palm of his hand, avoiding the scabs that were his wrists. He watched the red blood well up, tilting his hand and letting the blood run down his hand to drip down onto the floor. He was sitting on the toilet, the lid covering the seat, in the relative privacy of his bathroom.

Or rather, the bathroom of his hospital room.

Hotch frowned tilting his hand the other way, flexing his hand, watching fresh blood well up. He knew that it was only a matter of time before someone found him, but he didn’t care. Couldn’t care.

He wanted to know if it would hurt. If he could feel the pain.

Hotch reached out for a paper towel, using it to wipe the blood from the blade, and from his fingers. He didn’t want the blade to slip as he cut, moving onto his wrist. He cut below the scabs, but he cut deep, remembering exactly where to cut to cause more pain.

If he had salt, he would have rubbed it in the open wound in his hand, but he didn’t, so he did the only thing he could. He cut himself more.

He could remember, in a vague way, what it was like, to feel something that was his. Now, stuck in a hospital, not knowing where, none of the emotions he feels are his. Not the rage, not the anger, not the worry. Whenever he felt any of those things, he knew it wasn’t his own, but he couldn’t do a thing about it.

Sitting on the toilet, he felt cold, and nervous, but neither emotion was his. He couldn’t say who they belonged to; he just knew that they didn’t belong to him. It was like there was something, an edge to the emotions, which told him that.

He wondered, absently, if maybe he was just in denial. Though, as he thought that, he reminded himself that denial was an emotion. It was strange, trying to think of words to describe how he related to the world. So many had an emotional component and so few didn’t.

Hotch shifted the blade a little, holding the newest cut open, noticing how the blood was a brighter red; it still didn’t hurt.

The rage, that had been Morgan’s, Hotch thought, and he hadn’t been able to fight it. It had been so strong, so constant, he hadn’t had anything to counter it with. Everyone else’s emotions, in those moments, had been so much fainter, just present.

Hotch wondered what it said about Morgan, that his rage could conquer a whole room.

Reid, he always felt sick when Reid visited, even though it was rare for Reid to do anything but watch him through the window. Hotch didn’t think Reid knew Hotch was aware that he was there, so used to his mother, who wouldn’t know, not on her bad days.

Prentiss and JJ always worried, were always concerned, and it was worse when they were both there, even harder to fight. Hotch knew, every time they visited and he reflected their emotions back at them, they worried. There were so many things, so many unsubs they had encountered, who did the same thing.

Hotch didn’t need to feel anything to know that everyone thought he was crazy. That Yates had broken him; finally done what even Foyet couldn’t.

Hotch wouldn’t argue that he wasn’t broken, but he knew he wasn’t broken the way they thought he was. And he certainly wasn’t crazy.

Of all of his team, Rossi is the easiest presence, Rossi is the most controlled, keeping his emotions so carefully in check that Hotch wondered if he knew; though Hotch knew it wasn’t likely.

If Dave had known what was wrong, what was happening, he would have moved Hotch long ago. Hotch knew his friend well enough to recognise that. No one would have been able to stop Rossi from doing it either, Dave had so many favours stored up, so much money that he happily used however he wanted.

If David Rossi had been anyone else, hell if Max Ryan had found himself with as much money as Rossi, as much public attention, it would have been a disaster, but Rossi knew himself well enough not to let the money ruin him.

The problem was, Hotch thought, wiping the blade off again, ignoring the blood coating his legs and pooling on the floor, money couldn’t solve what was wrong with him. There was no magic cure, nothing that could be bought to fix what Yates had so inadvertently broken.

Hotch sighed, flexing his hand, then tensing the muscles in his lower arm; none of it hurt. He considered again, whether there was anything else he could do, but he only had limited supplies. Other than the razor, which he shouldn’t have had in the first place, all he had was paper towels, toothpaste, and his toothbrush.

Smearing toothpaste onto his wounds wouldn’t necessarily cause more pain; it would however make him sick, and that thought was enough for Hotch to shelve the idea of using the toothpaste. Being sick, without the nausea, without the other emotions, the feelings, that normally accompanied it was a strange experience. It was unsettling, or embarrassing, there was no emotional reaction to it.

Hotch remembered what it had been like, almost choking on his own vomit because he didn’t know he was throwing up. It wasn’t an experience he was in a hurry to have again.

Hotch shuddered, the nervousness increasing, closely matched by annoyance. The nurse was in his room; the one who seemed to hate his patients. Hotch knew that the only reason the nurse stayed was because he got off on the power.

Hotch shifted his grip on the blade, selecting another place to cut. He knew he wouldn’t get another chance.


	10. Nine

Early morning phone calls are never a good thing, Rossi knew, but this one had been worse than most. It had taken him less than five minutes to dress, throwing on whatever he could grab first, not caring what he looked like. The only thing he’d made sure to do before leaving his apartment had been checking on Mudgie, making sure the dog would be alright until whatever time he made it back. Then he had headed out, go-bag slung over one shoulder.

The drive to the hospital had seemed to take forever.

The car park was emptier than it ever was during the day, and Rossi managed to find a parking space close to the doors. He used the stairs rather than the elevator, his bag banging against his hip as he jogged up the two flights of stairs to the right floor.

The shift nurse was waiting for him by the desk, her hair damp and pushed back into a tight bun. They had met before, during his late night visits. With the team back on rotation, it had been the only time Rossi could make it to the hospital.

“Agent Rossi.” She blocked the path to Hotch’s room, motioning him towards the small family room across the hall from the desk. Rossi hesitated, wanting nothing more than to push past her, to make sure that Hotch was still breathing; if he was still breathing.

As though sensing his thoughts, the nurse squared her shoulders and shifted her weight, “He’s resting at the moment.”

Rossi gritted his teeth, then nodded, and allowed her to lead him into the private room. He sat on the overly comfortable sofa, and listened as she explained what had happened and what had been done, and what they wanted to do in the future.

Rossi sighed, rubbing a hand over his face, hating the decision the woman was asking him to make. If there was a downside to being a person’s next of kin, that was it; having to make the hard decisions.

“Are there any other options, other than drugs?” Rossi asked, “I would hope that after this, more care will be taken to make sure he doesn’t get his hands on anything he could harm himself with.” The phrasing was overly official, but it was that or yell at the woman, curse her and her staff for missing the razor. No one could explain how Hotch could have gotten his hands on it, but clearly he had.

The nurse winced, shifting her weight again, “I really am sorry Agent Rossi, I promise you it won’t happen again.”

Rossi bit back a sharp remark about how the promise wasn’t much use now, when the harm had already been done. He sighed, shaking his head. “You can sedate him if you have to, but no drugs.”

She opened her mouth to argue and he held up a hand, shaking his head, “I want a second, and third opinion; I want to be sure that it’s the only option before I make any decisions like that.” Saying yes would be surrendering, it would be admitting Hotch was broken; that he might never be fit to return to the BAU.

Rossi wasn’t quite ready for that, not just yet. It hadn’t even been a full month. They could afford to give it time.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit with him for a while.”

The nurse hesitated again, chewing on her bottom lip before she nodded, somewhat reluctantly. She stood and led him out of the room, and down the corridor to Hotch’s room. She started to open the door, then paused, reaching out to touch his wrist, “You need to be ready for what you’re about to see. He lost a lot of blood and he did a lot of damage.”

Rossi schooled his features, holding back a snarky comment he might have seen countless victims in hospital beds over the years, but seeing his own friends and family was always so much harder. With the victims, it was another person’s grief; with a friend, it was your own.

She nodded, apparently happy with what she saw, pushing the door open further and letting him past. Rossi was careful, he kept his eyes on the floor until he heard the door shut behind him, only then did he allow himself to look at the man laid on the bed.

-

Prentiss made her way to Hotch’s room slowly, balancing her gift carefully. It had taken her a long time to figure out what to bring, remembering the warnings from both Rossi and the nurses. Everyone but Garcia, who was at Prentiss’ side carrying her own offering, had been against the idea of gifts, but Prentiss didn’t care. She was fed up with the starkness of Hotch’s room, the off-white walls and the grey bedding, and she only spent a few hours there, once a week. She couldn’t imagine what it was like for Hotch.

Garcia was humming softly as they walked, and Prentiss couldn’t help but smile; of them all, Garcia was the only one who hadn’t lost hope. She was still the same, even in the hospital. Prentiss knew that sometimes Garcia cried, that there were times when she and Kevin would visit, and that those times were different. Garcia was doing everything she could do to be the rock for the rest of them, recognising the way that Rossi seemed to have pulled back from them.

All of them, they were all so scared of getting hurt. Prentiss allowed herself a moment to think, that was the bad side of the way they were, of the type of people they were. They’d formed strong bonds, strong enough that when one of them was hurting, they all hurt. And that wasn’t entirely healthy.

Prentiss shook her head, forcing the thought back. She wasn’t going to dwell on anything, not when she had other things to be focusing on. She shifted her grip on the box on her hands again as they approached the desk, drawing the attention of the head nurse; who looking less than impressed.

The woman stood, rounding the desk to stand in front of them, arms crossed over her stomach, eyes narrowed. Prentiss knew what was coming next.

“I’m afraid you won’t be able to take any of that into Mister Hotchner’s room.”

“We have checked, and there isn’t anything he could use to harm himself,” Garcia replied, her tone deliberately light. “I knitted this myself,” Garcia held up the sweater that was her offering, “and I made sure that it couldn’t be used for anything other what it should be.”

Prentiss could still remember the conversation Garcia had had with Reid, discussing her options. It had taken three days for Garcia to find yarn that she could still knit with, but that broke if more than a certain amount of pressure was applied. It had been rather morbid really, the amount of thought gone into that one sweater.

The nurse didn’t let up, and Garcia sighed, dumping her bag onto the desk and pulling out the sample she’d made specifically for this reason, holding it out to the nurse. There was a pause before the nurse reached out to take it, and the moment the other woman’s hand closed around it, Garcia tugged, the knitted strip breaking in two.

Prentiss watched the nurse’s expression; it had been a while since she had last felt that kind of a rush over someone else’s shock. Served the woman right, for thinking that they might not have considered their gifts carefully; though Prentiss guessed that enough people were likely to live in denial, that they were in fact a rarity.

It was a long moment before the nurse turned to her, eying the box critically. Prentiss managed her best smile, “I won’t be leaving much of this with him, it’ll be leaving with us.” The box itself, and the cup, once its contents had been drunk, but the soft lump at the bottom of the box would be staying.

The nurse stared at them for a moment longer before she sighed, shaking her head, “You can go in, but I’ll be doing a check as you leave.”

They both nodded, accepting the condition. They had expected it after all.

They walked slowly down the hallway, and stepped through the door into Hotch’s room. He was in the chair by the window again, staring out at the world. That at least hadn’t changed.

His right arm hung by his side, heavy bandages covering it from wrist to shoulder, and Prentiss forced herself not to think about it. Rossi had been vague with the details, but really, one look at Hotch, or the nurses in charge of his care spoke volumes.

Garcia ignored the blankness of Hotch’s gaze, and started talking as soon as they were though the door, filling him in on everything beguine that had happened since she had last visited. Prentiss doubted that there was much of it that would interest Hotch, but it was nice, the break in the silence that seemed to so often reign in Hotch’s room.

It took a few minutes, but Hotch finally seemed to focus on them, smiling at Garcia, though it didn’t seem to quite reach his eyes, and it was one of Hotch’s smiles. Like most of the expressions Prentiss had seen on Hotch’s face since Yates, it didn’t seem to be his own.

She noted that thought, then pushed it away, focusing on the gifts, and the things she wanted to do during her visit. She’d found, in the weeks since Hotch had woken, that it was easier to do something other than just sit dumbly in the chair if she went in with a plan of attack. Treating it like a raid as Morgan had teased her when she’d mentioned it to him. She’d managed not to throw a biting comment back; just barely.

“We brought you tea.” Prentiss interrupted Garcia’s description of Reid’s latest magic trick, to hold out the disposable cup to Hotch, who stared at it blankly for a moment before he smiled, thanking her. Prentiss felt a little sick, remembering what JJ had said, about how more often than not Hotch would forget to eat or drink.

Prentiss watched as he drank the tea, not reacting as it touched his lips, even though Prentiss knew it was still hot. She felt Garcia tense minutely at her side, and knew that she was thinking the same thing. As though sensing their feelings, Hotch lowered the cup, cradling it in his hands.

He didn’t say anything, just sat there waiting.

“I made this for you.” Garcia dropped her bag onto the bed, and pulled out the sweater, it would be a little big on him, and it was a brighter blue than Prentiss had ever seen Hotch wear. He stared at it for a second before he smiled again.

“It’s nice, thank you, Penelope.”

Garcia smiled, making a show of blushing. “I figured you could do with some colour, to break up all the bland.”

Hotch nodded, but didn’t say anything else. There was nothing more for him to say, no automatic response to that. Prentiss started to sympathise with Morgan’s urge to hit walls, and she watched as Hotch’s hands clenched into fists. He still didn’t say anything.

She wished he would start just the one conversation, or would just say _something_ to show that the old Hotch was still in there somewhere. She didn’t even know if he’d asked about Jack.

And that made her other gift all the more important.

“We brought you this as well.” Prentiss placed the cardboard box onto the bed and pulled the remaining occupant out, holding the stuffed toy out for Hotch to take.

There was a pause, as he stared at it, that same vacant expression that kept stealing across his face firmly in place, before he took it from her hands. Hotch held it at arm’s length for a moment before he moved, resting it on his knees as he examined it.

Prentiss had gotten the idea from what Garcia, JJ, and Rossi had told them all Jack had said, when they’d told him his father was sick and couldn’t see him for a while; Jack had been concerned that his father needed company. Prentiss had wondered if Haley had ever mentioned that to Jack, after the divorce, or while they were in witness protection; or maybe Haley had just mentioned it to her family, or friends, not realising that it would stick in her son’s mind.

The teddy bear had dark brown fur and was dressed in a tiny suit, though there weren’t any shoes. The tie was stitched to the collar of the shirt, the tiny stitches hidden, invisible unless you knew where to look. Its eyes were thread, rather than glass. The bear was as harmless as the sweater.

“Thank you.” Hotch said, finally, after staring at the bear for what seemed like hours, and Garcia relaxed, returning to her run down of Reid’s magic trick, then Anderson’s practical joke.

Prentiss just sat on the bed, watching Hotch stare at the teddy bear while Garcia spoke. For the first time since Hotch had been admitted to the hospital, Prentiss found herself wondering if she would ever see Hotch in a suit again.

Or if she even wanted to.

-

Hotch was angry, or at least, someone was angry.

He stared at the teddy bear that sat on the windowsill, the suit a perfect replica of one of his own, as the anger built. There was no one in his room, and the door was locked, he knew. They only unlocked the door when they knew he was due visitors or when there was a nurse nearby.

Hotch dropped his gaze, fiddling with the cuff of the sweater Garcia had knitted. The nurse hadn’t been impressed that morning, when Hotch had slipped it on over his head, but they hadn’t done anything about it. Hotch wasn’t sure why he’d put it on, just that it seemed like something he should do.

Under different circumstances he thought, it was what he would have done. He would have been touched by the thought, maybe even embarrassed, but he wasn’t. The sweater was just sweater, he couldn’t even say if he liked it or not.

The anger stirred again and Hotch growled, unable to fight it. He pushed the sheet back and climbed out of the bed. He started to pace, clenching and unclenching his fists, tapping them against his legs. He would have bruises he thought; he usually did, but there was no pain so he didn’t stop himself.

Hotch had to do something, had to move, or the anger would drive him to something else. Pacing was safe, if a nurse saw him they would leave him to it; they had decided that pacing was fine, just so long as he didn’t make any moves to purposefully injure himself.

Other people’s emotions were different, Hotch knew, in an abstract way, from his own. His own emotions, he could affect, could do something about. If he was angry he could push it back, or take deep breaths, or spend time in the gym; none of that worked with other people’s emotions. He had no control, no control at all, over how long they stayed.

He started to pace faster, pulling his bed away from the wall so that he could walk circuits of the room. He had an audience, he could feel their worry, but the anger was still stronger, and it wasn’t coming from just the one source anymore.

His breathing quickened and he started to worry at the sleeves of the sweater as he paced, becoming increasingly agitated. He tugged on his right sleeve, hard, and the sleeve gave, ripping away around the elbow. He froze, staring at it blankly, as someone’s horror reached him. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Hotch knew that meant that at least one of his audience was a member of his team.

Hotch stood, frozen in the middle of his room, a scarp of yarn in one hand, blood running sluggishly over the other. He must have pulled a stitch.

-

Rossi paced the length of his office, thankful it was late and the others had all gone home. Between the case they had just finished, and the reports he’d been getting from the others after their visits to Hotch, Rossi was feeling increasingly run down.

There had been something bothering him about Hotch’s behaviour. He kept replaying Yates’ final moments over and over in his head, remembering the expression on Hotch’s face, the way he had reacted. Then there was what had happened in the hospital.

Rossi had known Hotch for a long time and he liked to think he knew the other man well enough to be sure that it hadn’t been something Hotch would normally do. And more than that, if Rossi was honest with himself, he didn’t believe it had been the suicide attempt that the hospital staff believed it to have been.

If Aaron Hotchner had wanted to kill himself, he would have. From the hospital records, Rossi knew exactly what Hotch had done to himself, knew exactly how long it had taken. Hotch had had the time, more than enough Rossi knew, to have done the deed. Instead he had cut his palm twice, one shallow, the next deeper, before moving on up his arm. Hotch had avoided his wrists, and the majority of his major veins and arteries. He had cut though muscle, but that wasn’t life threatening; painful, and damaging maybe, but not life threatening.

Yes, Hotch could have died, given the blood loss, but he hadn’t.

Rossi sighed again, rubbing his forehead. It didn’t make a damn bit of sense, any of it.

Rossi had seen people break; other agents, before Gideon, had suffered breakdowns, two even lived permanently in psych wards, but there was something more, something _off_ about Hotch. Rossi hoped that it wasn’t just denial on his part, that it was the instincts he had honed from years as a profiler. He had met enough broken people to be able to judge when there was something more to it than met the eye.

Rossi stopped, rounding his desk and digging through the bottom drawer, hunting for the notebook he knew was in there. It didn’t take long to find it. It was the notebook he took with him on his book tours, and there were pockets in it for any business cards he was given.

There was a business card he remembered; the man who had given it to him had been, different, his theories interesting. At the time, he had rubbed Rossi the wrong way, bringing up one of the cases that Rossi didn’t like to talk about. Sure, he’d included it in the notes in one book, but he’d never written about it in detail.

Never aired his issues with psychics to the public the way he had his own team.

Rossi sighed, remembering what he had said to the kids, when they’d dealt with Stanley Usher. _When people are vulnerable, they’ll believe a lot of things._

Rossi stared at the phone number. He’d meet the man since, and while he didn’t agree with a lot of what the man said, Rossi found himself wondering if, maybe, he was exactly who he should be calling.

Rossi listed off the things the kids had told him, from Emily saying that it was like Hotch was just reacting to them, to how they were feeling, that everything he did now seemed fake, to Morgan and the fact that Hotch always seemed to be angry when he visited. Reid never said much, though the way he frowned when the others talked about Hotch said enough. JJ and Garcia were both more vague, their concern the focus of any comments they made.

And then there were his own experiences.

Rossi tapped the business card against the desk top for a moment before he nodded, and picked up his phone.

If it could bring Hotch back to them, it was worth the risk.

-  
Rossi didn’t say anything as he settled into the chair beside Hotch’s bed; but he didn’t need to. Even with the sedatives, which had been a constant since the sweater incident, Hotch could feel how Rossi felt.

Hotch curled in on himself a little more, trying to push the feelings away, but he couldn’t quite. There was nothing to use as a distraction either, nothing to think about other than the way he’s feeling. Or rather, the way Rossi is feeling.

It’s easier to tell that they aren’t his own though, as they lack the foggy quality of his thoughts, but still, it doesn’t allow him his own emotions. He thought, maybe, he doesn’t have feelings anymore. Maybe there were only other people’s emotions.

There was such a mixture of feelings coming from Rossi. There was a part of Hotch that wanted to yell, to make his disappointment and anger known, another that wanted to offer comfort, and yet another that seemed to be clinging to a frail hope.

None of those urges were really his, but it was hard to push them away when all he had was a feeble grip on intellectual thought. He didn’t want anything. Want was an emotion, just as much as hunger and pain.

Hotch squeezed his eyes closed, reacting more on instinct than anything else, and clenched his hands into fists. Exasperation flooded through him, and then Rossi’s hand was on his arm, pulling carefully, rolling him onto his back and drawing his attention to his friend’s face.

“Aaron.” Rossi finally broke the silence, leaning forwards, putting his face into Hotch’s line of sight, “I called in a favour.”

Hotch blinked slowly. He didn’t have a reaction to that, not one of his own at least. He could feel Dave’s hope though, overwhelming the more negative emotions.

Hotch licked his lips, frowning, “A favour?” It was the question he should ask; he didn’t know what question he would have wanted to ask. Maybe it would have been the same one.

Rossi nodded, “There’s a doctor; he thinks he might be able to help.”

“Help with what?” Hotch asked. There was nothing to help, nothing to cure, didn’t Rossi know that?

Hotch felt the flare of agony, mixed with worry, and knew that he had said the wrong thing. It was better not to say anything.

Rossi reached out after a few moments of silence, wiping Hotch’s cheek with his thumb. Hotch frowned, watching as Rossi drew back his damp hand. He couldn’t even tell he was crying. There was another swell of despair, and Hotch buried his face in his pillow, Rossi’s hand clamped around his upper left arm.

“With this.” Rossi’s voice was soft, “He’s going to help you deal with this.”

-

Hotch woke in a bed, in a room that didn’t look anything like his hospital room, or any of the rooms in his apartment. He frowned, blinking up at the ceiling. It was white, and textured, swirls of plaster everywhere.

Hotch waited for that rush of emotions, the one that always followed awareness. He knew it was there when he was asleep as well, forming the strange dreams he had been having, but he was always so much more aware of it when he was awake. But there was nothing.

Hotch frowned, shifting in the bed, turning his head from side to side, taking in the room. There’s the residual feeling of haziness from the sedatives he remembered being given in the hospital, but that’s it. It looks like a bedroom, complete with a full set of furniture.

He was still frowning when he started to push himself upright, only to cry out as he put his weight on his right hand. He curled into a ball around his arm, cradling it against his chest, gasping. He froze, eyes widening, then he uncurled slowly, staring at his arm. It was still bandaged, just as it had been in the hospital, and there were a few spots of dried blood, but he could feel it throbbing.

Hotch flexed his hand slowly, laughing as the pain spiked, tears running down his face and soaking the pillow as he kept laughing; he didn’t stop until he was shaking, so close to exhausted by the rush of emotion.

Emotion that was his own and no one else’s.

He had never been so grateful to feel pain in his whole life.

-

It took Hotch a while to gather the energy to move again, hunger winning out against the weariness.

He manoeuvred himself out of the bed carefully, wincing a little as his muscles complained at the movement. He embraced the feeling, wondering at the different pains he could feel. It was as though he had taken his own emotions for granted his whole life, not noticing how much of a range there was.

Hotch remembered, as he slipped his feet into the slippers that are sat at the end of the bed, what Rossi had said, about calling in a favour. At the time, Hotch hadn’t been expecting anything but another doctor; another person to poke and prod him and announce him mentally unsound and in need of another selection of drugs.

There had been so many of them, most sent by the hospital. None of them had entirely agreed on what was wrong with him; fewer had even been sure of their conclusions.

Hotch moved to the window, pulling back the curtain and looking out at fields, endless fields. There was a barn he could see, that didn’t look quite right, but it was across a field from the building he was in. Hotch had no idea where he was, and he couldn’t even begin to imagine who Rossi might know, that a favour would lead to Hotch finding himself in an apparently deserted farm house.

Hotch doubted that any of the doctors he had seen would have been impressed. Leaving a man who had harmed himself, deliberately, with forethought, alone, surrounded by things he could use to further harm himself; it didn’t really sound like a good idea.

Hotch snorted, cradling his right arm against his chest carefully. He wasn’t going to be doing himself anymore harm. Not when he could finally _feel_.

He took one last look around the room, before he moved towards the door. He pushed it open, stepping out into a corridor. He was in a house, that much he could tell, and he knew, from his brief glimpse of the outside world, that it was a long way from anywhere.

Hotch hoped that there was food somewhere in the house, that he wouldn’t have to venture across to the barn. He doubted he would have been left entirely to his own devices, while it might be the best thing for him, he knew Rossi well enough to be sure that it wasn’t something he would even begin to consider.

Hotch moved slowly through the house clearing rooms, despite not having his gun, and only having one functioning arm. He had to look in all of them, wanting to be certain that there weren’t any unpleasant surprised hiding anywhere, waiting for him to let down his guard.

He was breathing heavily by the time he made it to the kitchen, along with being a little dizzy. He tried to remember the last time he had eaten, but he knew it had been a while. He had been on a drip for a while, before Rossi’s visit. Hotch opened the cupboards, sagging a little with relief as he found food in most of them. The others held plates and saucepans, everything he would need to cook with.

The only problem was, there was only so much he could do one handed.

Hotch pulled out a bowl, then a box of cereal, filling the bowl and carrying it to the table before he went to the refrigerator, pulling the carton of milk out and carrying it to the table as well before returning for a spoon.

Even that much effort was exhausting, and he sagged into the chair, giving himself a few moments before he poured the milk, then dug into the bowl of cereal.

Once he finished, he just sat there for a while, waiting for the food to settle, and for the dizziness to pass, before he stood to collect a glass and the apple juice he had spotted. Two glasses later and he felt ready to retreat to his bed, only there was one problem.

He could feel someone coming.

Hotch didn’t bother to try and run, he just sat at the kitchen table and waited. He could still feel, the pain in his arm still present, along with the ache in his stomach and his own desperation. He wasn’t ready, hadn’t been given long enough alone with his own emotions.

He didn’t want a visitor.

Hotch fought back the panic, clenching his right hand into a fist, focusing on the pain. The kitchen door swung open a moment later, the hinges squealing. Hotch forced himself to look up, to meet his visitor’s gaze.

The man looked to be about Hotch’s age, his hair grey. Hotch could feel the man’s regret, but he didn’t care. If the man knew, if he understand what was happening, what had happened to Hotch, he should have given Hotch a little more time; should have understood that Hotch would want time to just feel.

To be himself, unaffected by the emotions of others.

“I’m sorry Agent Hotchner, for not giving you more time to yourself.” The man sat in the chair opposite Hotch, not asking permission. “But I had to come make sure that you were all right. Agent Rossi made it clear that if anything happened to you, he would take it very badly.”

The man gave a wry smile, but Hotch didn’t smile.

He had no reason to smile, no reason to trust the man sitting across from him. The man who knew his name, but hadn’t given one in return.

It was just one more loss of control.

The man sagged a little, and Hotch felt another flash of regret, accompanied by sheepishness.

“I’m sorry, I should have introduced myself. My name is Doctor Michael Welles and I am going to help you.”


	11. Ten

Hotch spent three days in the farmhouse, doing everything he could to avoid Doctor Welles, or Michael as he’d asked Hotch to call him, and his scientific curiosity. It wasn’t that Hotch couldn’t understand where the other man was coming from, it was more that Hotch was fairly certain the man was used to being the teacher; the saviour.

Hotch didn’t need a saviour, or a mentor; he had had plenty of those over the years.

What he did need, he wasn’t quite sure. Time alone in his own head seemed to be the only thing he could think of.

The farmhouse was big, with eight bedrooms and various hidden passages that spoke of the building’s age. Hotch spent a day in one of the hidden passages, in the wall behind the kitchen, tracking Michael as the other man wandered the house.

Michael knew where Hotch was, but he didn’t make any real effort to find him, and for the first time since waking up, Hotch considered actually listening to the other man. Though he knew he would have to make it beyond the enthusiasm, and the vague concepts of understanding.

On the fourth day, Hotch was waiting for Michael in the kitchen when he arrived.

“I must say, I’m surprised.” Michael stuck his hands into his pockets, not moving any further into the room. There was a weariness that there hadn’t been before, and Hotch felt a little guilty.

Hotch shrugged, “I needed some time.”

Michael nodded after a moment, pulling his hands from his pockets and moving to the table, dropping into a chair and pouring himself a cup of tea. Hotch waited for the other man to centre himself; for the inevitable lecture to begin.

Michael stirred milk, then sugar into his tea, taking a sip before he placed the cup back onto the table and steepled his hands in front of him, elbows resting on the table.

“I’ll be honest with you, I’m used to dealing with people who think they’re crazy, who have spent years surrounded by people who are actually crazy because everyone thought that was where they belonged.” Michael looked up meeting Hotch’s gaze, “But you don’t think you’re crazy do you?”

“No, I don’t.”

Michael smiled, though it wasn’t as smug as it appeared, “How long have you known?”

Hotch’s eyebrows rose, “How long have I known what?”

Michael shook his head, picking up his cup again, “That you’re an empath?”

Hotch considered lying, but sitting in a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, talking to the one person who might actually be able to help him, it didn’t seem worth it. “I’ve known my whole life, that I could tell how other people were feeling.”

Michael rolled his eyes, “That you’re an empath.”

Hotch frowned, shaking his head, “No, I never thought of it that way. I was twelve when I realised that I was the only one who seemed to be able to tell how people were feeling.” His mother had been dead for almost a year, but he hadn’t been able to get that day out his head, what little he had been able to remember about it.

His father had sent him to a psychiatrist, and the man had done his utmost to try and get Hotch to talk to him. The only problem was, the first time, the first appointment, when Hotch had told the man that he had felt his mother die, the man had looked blank for the longest moment. Then, he’d started talking about how it must have seemed like that, and how really it was just Hotch’s sense of loss. Hotch hadn’t bothered talking much after that.

Michael hummed, tapping his fingers against the side of his cup, before he lowered it, “You never thought of it as empathy?”

“I thought of it as empathy, but I didn’t think of myself as an empath.” Hotch said, in something that was almost a monotone, “I thought I just related to people better than most, that I was just picking up on cues.”

“Really?” Michael’s doubt was almost palpable, “Doing the job you’ve been doing for the last, what, fifteen years? You never thought it was more than that?”

Hotch sighed, rubbing his temple. He had, but it was one of those things he tried not to think about. His mother’s death, his father’s slow transformation into someone Hotch barely recognised, the way Haley’s feelings about him had changed, Gideon breaking; the list seemed to grow longer every day. So many things that he didn’t want to think about, didn’t want to admit had happened, or were happening. Hotch had been living with denial for most of his life.

“I didn’t let myself think it might be more than that.”

Michael smiled, “But you know better now?”

Hotch just looked at Michael, making his opinion on the other man’s tone clear. It wasn’t that he had never dealt with it; he had just pushed it away. There wasn’t anything wrong with wanting to be normal. Hotch snorted; not that Michael would agree with that. Everything about the other man said that he thought Hotch should be embracing his ‘gift’.

Hotch wondered how Michael would feel if he had Hotch’s ‘gift’.

Michael’s smugness faded a little, the longer Hotch remained silent, and he managed to look a little apologetic. Hotch resisted the urge to point out that faking emotions via body language and expression wasn’t likely to convince an empath you were feeling a certain way.

“I’m sorry, I know I have a different opinion on this than you, and no, I can’t completely understand what it’s like, but I do want to help you.” Michael was sincere in that much.

Hotch sighed, rubbing his temple again. Reminding himself that he had decided to give Michael a chance. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life living in a remote farm. He owed Jack better than that at the very least.

“What do you want me to do?”

-

Making the trip out to the barn had been difficult. Hotch was relieved that Michael had agreed to let him make it alone, and in his own time.

There were a lot of people in that barn, and as he grew closer to the door, the stronger their emotions became. He had to stop, to take a few steps back, away from the barn, fighting to get his breathing back under control.

It was hard, knowing there was a possibility that he walked into that barn, his own emotions would be subsumed by theirs, just as they had been during his time in the hospital.

Somehow, that thought, the idea of that happening again, was the scariest thing he had faced in his life; and he hated it. So many things had happened, so many things that should have scared him more than that. It felt like he was somehow belittling his other losses, by being selfish as he sat on the grass, just a few metres short of his target.

He had to walk through that door, had to deal with this new found fear. He couldn’t let it own him.

Hotch took a deep breath, closing his eyes and listing all the reasons why he had to go into that barn. Jack needed him, needed a father, needed a life that didn’t entail living in near seclusion with a father who wouldn’t leave the house. That was the reason he held onto, that he used to force himself to stand and cross those last few metres.

He would do it for Jack.

-

The barn was overwhelming the first time. Hotch didn’t really remember what had happened, he knew he had fallen to his knees, that at some point he had started tearing at the bandages on his right arm. At some point, the pain had become his touchstone; the one emotion he knew was his and his alone.

It had taken him a while to notice they were leaving, that one by one the groups of emotions were dropping away, fading into background noise. By the time he had been able to focus again, it had just been him and Michael, and Hotch’s left hand had been covered in blood.

Hotch stared at it for a long moment, slumping against the wall, watching the blood start to dry. He needed to stop doing that, stop using the pain as a crutch. It wasn’t healthy, he knew it wasn’t healthy. It was only his desperation that drove him to do it, the logical thought that the only emotion he could be sure was his own was an emotion he caused.

Pain was the only emotion he knew of that he could control in that way.

“Agent Hotchner?” Michael moved closer, holding out a pressure bandage, not quite closing the distance between them. There was a wariness there that hadn’t been before, almost fear.

Hotch frowned, “Hotch, you can call me Hotch.” He closed his eyes, then opened them again, forcing himself to reach out and take the bandage, wrapping it around his right arm as best he could. He wondered just how much damage he had done, between the cutting and the almost constant reopening of the wound.

Hotch took deep breaths, waiting for the pain to ease a little before he focused on Michael, “Sorry.”

Michael shook his head, and Hotch could feel the frustration and guilt coming from the man. Hotch frowned, “What?”

Michael blinked, confusion edging in to join the other emotions, “Hotch?”

“Something else happened, other than me tearing my stitches and collapsing.” Hotch said. It was there in the way Michael was looking at him.

“You may have projected.” Michael said, and Hotch just stared at the other man, not understanding.

Michel sighed, sitting down next to Hotch, “Up until now, you have always been feeling other people’s emotions, to some degree. When you came in, you were overwhelmed, but unlike previously, when those other emotions overrode your own, you pushed back. You made yourself feel the pain, to keep your connection to your own emotions, but at the same time, you made everyone else feel that pain.”

Hotch stared at Michael for a long moment, half aware that he was shaking his head, “If I could do that, I think it would have happened before now.”

Yates, Foyet, Perotta, all of the others. It would have happened before. If what Michael was saying was true, it would have happened before.

Michael shook his head, “I should have thought of it before. From what you said, you have always been empathic, but you’ve never had a breakdown before. Normally, the people I help, they have just come into their gifts, it’s all an unknown to them, all new.” Michael sighed, finally turning his head to look at Hotch, “I made assumptions that I shouldn’t have, and I’m sorry.”

Hotch frowned, “What does that mean?”

“The approach I normally use isn’t going to work.” Michael offered Hotch a rueful grin, “But then you’re my first empath, so I should have considered that before.”

“Who are the other people? What were their ‘gifts’?” Hotch asked, turning a little, but keeping up the pressure on the bandage. The bleeding was slowing.

“Telepaths. They’ve been the focus of all of my work over the years. That’s how I met Agent Rossi.” Michael said, “He worked with someone who claimed to be a psychic, who was in fact a telepath. The woman led Agent Rossi’s investigation down the wrong path, because she was just using the police’s own theories.”

Hotch nodded, “He’s mentioned that case.”

Michael smiled, “I got the impression that he holds it up as an example of why psychics can’t be trusted.”

Hotch managed a smile, though the throbbing in his arms was becoming more insistent. “He does.”

“With telepaths, there are ways to block your thoughts.” Michael said, returning to his original subject, “Every member of my staff is trained to block telepaths; if they weren’t, the telepaths who come here wouldn’t be any better off than they were where they came from.”

Hotch winced, “But you can’t block your emotions.”

Michael sighed, “I tried, when I visited you in the house the first time? I was blocking, it took me a while to realise it wasn’t working.”

Hotch shook his head, “I used to be able to,” He searched for a way to explain what he had done, before Yates, “it was like I could reduce other people’s emotions to background noise. Like being in a room full of people, who are all talking, but being able to hear just the one conversation?”

Michael smiled, “That’s what I’ve always taught the telepaths to do, how to focus on the one person, how to block anything out they don’t want to hear.”

“How to be alone in their own head.” Hotch said, closing his eyes. He felt Michael’s stab of regret, but he didn’t say anything. They were both guilty of their own arrogance.

Hotch for believing that nothing would ever happen to break his control. Michael for thinking that his experience with telepaths could be translated into a way to help someone who was empathic.

They had both learned the hard way they were wrong.

-

Hotch spent a week back in the farm, though he was allowed to talk to Jack, using the web camera that had been set up for him. Jack was always happy to see him, but Hotch could tell, even without being able to sense how his son was feeling, that his son wasn’t as happy as he wanted his father to think he was.

Hotch wondered how much his son had learned from him about putting up fronts; about showing people what they wanted, expected to see.

It made his chest ache.

Michael eased Hotch into a few exercises, careful not to overload him with emotional input. No more than three people would be in the farm house with him at any time. Hotch was starting to recognise the different people. It was hard to explain how, though Michael had asked him to; there weren’t any voices to match to a face, just what Hotch could only describe as a ‘taste’.

All three could be feeling the same thing, but Hotch would be able to tell to what degree, and which of the other emotions matched each of them. No one, it seemed, felt the same combination of emotions at any one time.

“What about when you close your eyes?” Michael asked. It was the standard approach now, for Michael to ask Hotch to do something, and then ask what had happened, whether it had made it easier or harder to figure something out.

“When there’s more of you, it’s more overwhelming, but it makes it easier sometimes, to tell which of you is feeling what.” Hotch said, tearing up another piece of tissue. It was the only way he could take out his frustration during their sessions; he would go for a run afterwards.

Hotch hated how much harder he seemed to find it to keep his own emotions in check, though he knew, at the same time, it was because he was savouring them. He needed to feel them, to know he still could.

Yates had left a legacy Hotch wasn’t sure would ever fade.

Michael tapped his finger against the table, “Do you get any impressions, along with the emotions, other than who they belong to?”

Hotch closed his eyes, focusing on the emotions he could tell were Michael’s; he frowned, struggling with how to verbalize what it was he was feeling. That was another thing on his list of things that were making him feel powerless, out of control. Words had always been his main weapon, but when it came to finding the words to explain his ‘gift’ to Michael, he couldn’t find them. “Yes and no.”

Hotch’s shoulders sagged a little, and he felt his control slip a little more. He was exhausted, after a long day of exercises and questions. He had a headache, and so did Michael.

Michael wrote a few more notes, before he nodded, looking up at Hotch, “That’s is for today, we’ll leave you to yourself.” Michael offered Hotch a smile, then gathered his stuff and motioned for the other scientists to follow him back to the barn.

Hotch sighed, burying his face in his hands. He wished he knew what they said about him, what they thought.

More than that, he wished that he could go back, tell JJ to pass the case on to another unit. He could have taken the team to Lawrence. But he knew that he never would have made that decision, not with the information they had had.

Hindsight, the thing you could never really use, because by the time you had it, it was far, far too late.

-

Hotch sat in the field, far enough from the farm that he couldn’t sense any of the scientists clearly, absently scratching at the scabs on his right arm. He was wearing the sweater Garcia had knitted him, not caring about the ragged half-length sleeve, it was more of a comfort than anything else.

Of all the things that had been sent to him, it was the only thing that was of any comfort; other than the letters Jack sent every few days. Hotch could see Reid’s hand in them; just as the sweater reminded him of Garcia, and her endless warmth. He wondered what his son thought of his honorary Uncle Spencer, of the numerous facts that the man had probably been telling a rather bemused Jack.

JJ and Prentiss had been keeping an eye on Jack, Hotch knew, from the brief conversation he had had with Jessica, while Garcia was happy to take Jack for a day ever so often to give his aunt a break. Rossi called every once in a while. Really, it was only Morgan that Hotch hadn’t really heard from.

Hotch sighed; he missed Jack, missed his team, missed home. Missed feeling like a person rather than a science experiment.

Hotch rubbed his temples wearily. Even with the space he had put between himself and the farm, he could still sense them, there was no shutting it off, and when he was honest with himself, he knew Michael’s exercises still weren’t helping enough.

It seemed like an insurmountable challenge, the idea of ever leaving the farm; ever being able to spend time in a city, surrounded by people; surrounded by emotion.

Hotch sat back, resting against the fence, staring at the farm, watching the scientists come and go. They lived in quarters in the loft, during their time on the farm, and he was starting to get to know the full timers. He didn’t hate them, even if they did make him feel more than a little bit like a lab rat.

It was strange, Hotch thought, listening to their stories about the telepaths they had met. As far as he could tell, there had only been a few, and only one whose ‘gift’ could be compared to Hotch’s. They spoke fondly of her.

He wondered if he would ever get to meet her.

All of his life, Hotch had been almost certain that it was just him, that there was no one else like him. No one else who had seemed so aware of how other people were feeling; Haley’s joy had always been her own, his father had never noticed how much his step-mother had been hurting, his brother Sean had never noticed the emotional rift between his parents.

The BAU had been the first place that Hotch had doubted that certainty. It had been there that he had come the closest to finding people like him. It had taken him a little while to accept that they weren’t like him, that he had come so close to finding people who would understand, only to realise that they really wouldn’t.

He had become paranoid at one point, after coming under Ryan’s scrutiny one too many times, that if they had found out what he could do, they would have locked him away.

Hotch closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the tree, focusing on the feeling of bark against his cheek when a sudden flare of triumph reached him from the barn. Someone had clearly had a breakthrough on one of their projects.

As a prosecutor, Hotch had only ever used his empathy to gauge how well he was doing with the jury, how convinced they were of his argument. As a SWAT member, he had used it to gauge where the line was during negotiations, though he had never relied solely on that.

SWAT respected instincts, and he played his empathy that way. If he had tried to play it any other way, he doubted it would have gone down well.

With the BAU, he had spent the first three months using his empathy more than he ever had before, thinking that they would understand. In hindsight, a word that came up so often when he thought of the past, it had been risky.

In the face of Gideon, who seemed to be able to work out exactly how a person was feeling, and Ryan who made wild guesses and often seemed to change his approach on a whim, Hotch had thought it the only way to keep up. Had wondered if they felt things the way he did.

It hadn’t taken him long to see they didn’t. There were times when he hadn’t spoken up, but should have, when one of the senior profilers had taken a risk and lost. He started to notice then, how often other people seemed to manage to trick one another.

There were times when Hotch knew he was the only one who could see though the brilliantly faked emotional responses, but his input was ignored. In the end, Hotch had learned to push his empathy down, to tone it down to the point that it was just another part of his thought process.

He had learned the times when he could get away with using it and the times he couldn’t.

Instinct only had so much use in the BAU; rationale, logical thought was better respected, along with working examples.

He knew that his choice to ignore his ‘gift’ had cost him dearly. Knew that, had he just used it that first time in Boston, when he’d helped interview Foyet, he might never have lost Haley. His son might still have a mother, instead of just a broken father.

He had a lot of regrets, and now, with Yates having stripped him of his long fought for control, he knew he was going to have to face the music.

He couldn’t hide that part of himself from the world anymore. Couldn’t deny it anymore.

-

Hotch was in the middle of a complicated exercise, blindfolded and asked to locate people via their emotions, when he became aware of someone new. Someone he could almost recognise, but whose name he couldn’t place.

He didn’t think it was one of the scientists.

Hotch ignored the flash of irritation he felt from Lanie, one of the more data focused researchers, as he reached up and pulled off the blind fold, turning to face the doorway.

“Dave?”

Rossi smiled, and Hotch felt a familiar sense of affection, stronger than he had ever before. For the first time since he’d woken up at the farm, it didn’t bother him. At that moment, the only thing he could feel with delight at seeing his friend in what felt like months.

Everything that had happened in the hospital still seemed more like a dream than something that had really happened to him. He still wasn’t sure if it was because of the emotional disconnect, or the drugs, but he had decided not to examine it too closely. Those were memories he could stand to do without.

“Aaron, I was wondering if I could steal you away from your new friends.” Rossi eyed the scientists, and Hotch could feel Rossi’s distaste. It was a comfort to know that someone else was just as uncomfortable with their attitude as Hotch was.

He had been starting to feel more and more like a freak, especially on the occasions when he tried to speak to Lanie and the rest of her group. They always seemed happier if they could remain relatively objective, and conversations with the test subject didn’t seem to be something they were willing to explore.

“I could do with a break.” Hotch agreed, already starting across the room. Rossi wouldn’t have been able to visit if Michael hadn’t given him the ok, so the others could just live with whatever results they had gotten from the hour he had already spent with them.

Rossi grinned, “Good, I trust you know somewhere more private for us to go?”

Hotch nodded, taking the lead through the barn and out, heading for the farmhouse.

-

“You’re looking better.” Rossi commented, toying with his mug idly as they sat at the kitchen table, looking out the window at the empty fields. Hotch nodded.

“I’m doing better.” Hotch admitted, eying the contents of his mug for a moment before he looked up at his friend. “I owe you.”

Rossi shook his head, “No you don’t; you would have done the same.”

Hotch smiled; it was nice to know where he stood, and Rossi hadn’t changed. He might be walking on eggshells a little, but Hotch couldn’t exactly blame him.

Rossi sighed, shaking his head and pushing away his mug, “Aaron, as much as I would like to tell you that I just came out to see how you were doing, that isn’t why I came.”

Hotch frowned, gone was the relief that had been Rossi’s main emotion, replaced by frustration and the kind of anger he was used to feeling from Morgan. Politics, Hotch thought, Rossi had to have heard something, something that bothered him, and it had to be something to do with Hotch. It was the only reason that Rossi would have even mentioned it.

Rossi might have most people fooled, but Hotch knew that he was bad a mother hen as any of them. He believed in letting people get better before laying anymore weight on their shoulders.

“I’m guessing whatever it is you’ve heard, I’m not going to like it.” Hotch said.

Rossi sighed, rubbing his forehead before he spoke, “From what I’ve heard, you no longer have a place with the BAU or the FBI. It seems they have another position in mind for you, once you get out of this place.”

Hotch gritted his teeth, aware of his own anger growing to match Rossi’s, “I have no intention of leaving the BAU.”

Rossi’s smile was bitter, “I’m not so sure you’re going to be given a choice.” Rossi sighed, slumping a little, shaking his head, “I’m not sorry, for calling Welles, but don’t doubt I wish there had been something else, another option.”

“If I had any alcohol,” Hotch answered dryly, “I would offer it to you.” He took a breath, “I don’t blame you Dave, if you hadn’t called Welles, I’m sure I’d still be in that hospital.”

Rossi shook his head, reaching to pat Hotch’s hand, not saying a word and Hotch couldn’t help but wonder if maybe he had just exchanged one kind of prison for another.

And he dreaded what that might mean for his family.


	12. Epilogue

Hotch sat out in the field, watching the sunset, considering his options; it didn’t seem like he had all that many.

It was still a struggle sometimes, even in the relative isolation of the farm, to keep his shields up, to recognise his own emotions from those of the people around him. It was hard for him to believe that, as a child, he had managed to do it with relative ease.

Hotch sighed, closing his eyes and lying back in the grass, thinking of Jack. His son deserved to have a father, and he wanted to be able to be there for his child, but he wondered if he would be allowed to. He wasn’t an idiot, he knew who had funded the farm and its small group of scientists, knew that once they decided he was ready they would probably try to use his ‘gift’.

He had no intention of doing what they wanted him to. The BAU, his home he admitted to himself as he lay on the grass, was the one place he could see himself returning to. It would be hard, but he missed his office. Missed his team.

When he left the farm, it would be on his own terms, though he knew that it might cost him. As much as the thought made him cringe, the new found knowledge that he could project onto others as well could well be useful when it came to if; though it was something that never intended to use, unless there was no other option.

His own experience, living in a haze of other people’s emotions for the long month in the hospital, unable to feel his own emotions, his own needs, would stay with him for the rest of his life. A lesson to remember whenever he considered using his empathy against anyone; the idea of anyone else suffering though it would live on his nightmares.

Hotch frowned, turning his head as he became aware of someone slowly approaching from across the field. It was a young woman that he didn’t recognise, and she wasn’t dressed like any of the scientists.

She looked up at him then, pausing mid step, then she smiled, waving.

Hotch hesitated, thrown of the emotions that he could tell she was deliberately projecting; excitement, understanding, and awe. He didn’t wave back, but she didn’t seem to mind, increasing her pace to cover the last few metres between them.

“Hi.” She smiled down at him, then motioned at the grass, “Do you mind if I sit down?”

Hotch, frowned, then nodded, and her smile widened as she dropped onto the grass, drawing her legs up against her chest and resting her chin on her knees as she examined him. Her gaze, her interest, was nothing like that of the scientists.

There was a pause, then she blushed, “Sorry, I just,” she laughed at herself, shaking her head, “I’m Freya McAllister.”

Hotch’s frown deepened, and Freya looked startled.

“Michael didn’t mention me to you?” She wasn’t impressed, and that alone was enough to make Hotch warm to the strange young woman.

“He hasn’t mentioned anyone by name.” Hotch could guess though, from her emotions, and the way she seemed to respond to him before he’d spoken, why she’d come, and how she knew Doctor Welles.

Freya’s eyes narrowed and she nodded, her smile fading a little, “I work for the NSA, and you’re right, about Michael.”

“We’re not the same.” Hotch pointed out, and Freya nodded.

“No, we’re not, I’m a telepath, you’re an empath, it’s different, but I think there are similarities too.” Freya reasoned, and Hotch sat a little straighter at the emotion that accompanied the words.

“I have no intention of working for the NSA.” Hotch said, and Freya smiled.

“I know.”

Hotch waited, amusing Freya.

“I don’t really have anyone I can talk to, about what it’s like. Michael, he doesn’t really understand what it’s like.” Freya shrugged, “And I am very aware of how many people would like to get their hands on me.”

“I think a telepath is in more demand than an empath.” Hotch said drily, drawing a frown from Freya.

“But my telepathy, it’s entirely one sided, I can’t effect anyone, can’t project onto people, you can.”

Hotch flinched, and Freya reached out, apologetic.

“Sorry, I just.” She sighed, shrugging, “I think maybe, we could help each other, look out for each other.”

Hotch smiled a little despite himself. “You want to start a support network?”

Freya smiled, tilting her head to one side, a slight blush touching her cheeks, “I do, and I plan to help you get back to where you belong. I mean, they didn’t give me much choice, but I didn’t really have anyone who cared.” She winced, “Well I have my sister, but, she would never have gone against whatever they told her. I was sick for a long time.”

Hotch reached out to her then, squeezing her hand. “It would be nice, having someone to talk to.”

Freya smiled, squeezing back, “We could learn a lot from each other. I mean, I’m sure people guess, when I do solo interviews, that there’s something off about the whole situation.”

Hotch raised his eyebrows and Freya blushed.

“I may have read your file; I was curious. It’s been five years, in all that time I haven’t met anyone else.”

Hotch squeezed her hand, “In all my life, until now, I don’t think I’d ever met anyone else either. I thought I had, but they weren’t.”

Freya nodded, “I know what you mean.”

There was a pause, then Freya shifted a little closer, “What do you say, Agent Hotchner,” she laughed, correcting herself, “Hotch? Should we be allies?”

Hotch smiled despite himself, “I think we could learn a lot from each other.”

Freya grinned, “Great, now let’s get you home.”

-

I measure every Grief I meet  
With narrow, probing, eyes –  
I wonder if It weighs like Mine –  
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long –  
Or did it just begin –  
I could not tell the Date of Mine –  
It feels so old a pain –

I wonder if it hurts to live –  
And if They have to try –  
And whether – could They choose between –  
It would not be – to die –

I note that Some – gone patient long –  
At length, renew their smile –  
An imitation of a Light  
That has so little Oil –

I wonder if when Years have piled –  
Some Thousands – on the Harm –  
That hurt them early – such a lapse  
Could give them any Balm –

Or would they go on aching still  
Through Centuries of Nerve –  
Enlightened to a larger Pain –  
In Contrast with the Love –

The Grieved – are many – I am told –  
There is the various Cause –  
Death – is but one – and comes but once –  
And only nails the eyes –

There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –  
A sort they call "Despair" –  
There's Banishment from native Eyes –  
In sight of Native Air –

And though I may not guess the kind –  
Correctly – yet to me  
A piercing Comfort it affords  
In passing Calvary –

To note the fashions – of the Cross –  
And how they're mostly worn –  
Still fascinated to presume  
That Some – are like my own –  
(Emily Dickinson – I measure every Grief I meet)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> End Notes:
> 
> The comment about ‘another person’s grief’ is something I heard in work, from someone who has gone to work at the coroner’s office. Her new boss told her that it was good to remind yourself of that, doing that job. The wording stuck with me, and seemed right for the fic, but I wanted to recognise that it came from someone else.
> 
> I’m not entirely happy with this fic (or how in character some sections are in, the empathy side of things, while interesting to write, presented interesting challenges), or the ending, but it turned out better than I started to think it would halfway through my edits *heh*.
> 
> I took the title of the fic from the Emily Dickinson poem at the end, and there was going to be more of an exploration of grief, but the fic didn’t lend itself to it so much in the end, though I think the title still suits the fic.
> 
> I also learned, writing this fic, that word likes changing the word empath to empathy at every chance it gets.
> 
> The art that was made to accompany this fic, by the lovely seraphina_snape can be found here: http://theiconicplague.livejournal.com/23830.html


End file.
